OF  CALIF.  LIBRARY,  LOS  ANGELES 


DOLF 


D  O  L  F 


BY 

F.  E.  BAILY 


BONI    AND    LIVERIGHT 

PUBLISHERS  NEW  YORK 


DOLF 
COPYRIGHT,  1921,  BY 

BOXI   AND   LlVERIGHT 

Second  Printing 


Printed  in-  the  United  States  of  America 


DOLF 


2128647 


DOLF 


CHAPTER  I 

ON  a  breathless  morning  of  late  July,  Dolf  sat  on  the  edge 
of  a  counter  in  the  dress  department  of  her  father's  shop, 
clasping  one  knee  with  her  slender  hands,  and  gazed  dreamily 
at  the  pink  frock  in  the  window. 

Nothing  stirred.  The  children  had  clattered  by  on  their 
way  to  school ;  the  "hoof -beats  of  a  passing  horse  clip-clopped 
away  into  the  distance.  Sunlight  transmuted  Avonbridge 
high  street  into  a  magician's  dream  of  gold  and  grey;  not  a 
leaf  fluttered  on  any  tree  and  the  lazy  call  of  birds  came  softly 
as  the  cooing  of  a  bride. 

With  a  sigh  almost  of  agony,  Dolf  slipped  down  to  the  floor 
and  stood  straight  as  truth,  slender  as  a  sword,  listening  to 
the  silence.  Little  aching  thrills  of  lovely  pain  ran  through 
her  veins,  cravings  she  barely  understood,  yet  longed  to 
satisfy,  tore  at  her  heart.  She  only  knew  she  was  seventeen, 
and  a  whole  beautiful  world  lay  laughing  in  the  sun,  a  play- 
ground for  love,  full  of  splendid  lovers.  It  was  a  morning 
when  the  grass  seemed  to  grow  and  the  buds  open  before  her 
very  eyes;  with  a  sudden  smarting  of  tears  Dolf  knew  she  had 
no  lover,  that  the  pink  frock  would  never  be  hers,  that  no 
fairy  piping  calls  a  little  girl  from  a  country  drapery  to  meet 
her  wonder-sweetheart  in  the  greenwood. 

She  paused  for  a  moment,  a  slight,  fair-haired  creature,  with 
the  short,  straight  nose  and  tender,  provocative  mouth  that 
send  an  instant  wave  of  desire  through  four  men  in  every 
five.  Then,  with  a  movement  of  half-comic  resignation,  she 

7 


8  DOLF 

crossed  the  worn  oak  floor  and  climbed  into  the  window,  lifting 
a  short  flight  of  steps  after  her.  At  any  rate  she  could  fondle 
the  pink  frock,  dream  over  it,  arrange  its  soft  linen  lines  to 
better  advantage.  Dolf  prepared  for  the  task  in  the  spirit  of 
one  who  attires  some  indifferent  sister  to  wed  the  only  man  she 
herself  can  ever  love. 

As  she  stood  gazing,  Tom  Wainwright  came  out  of  his 
father's  grocery  opposite  with  all  the  bustle  and  importance  of 
the  smart  young  salesman,  to  criticise  his  own  window-dressing. 

Dolf  hesitated.  Her  calculating  glance  took  in  his  round, 
boyish  face  with  its  already  purposeful  mouth.  She  lost  no 
value  in  all  his  composition — the  smooth,  carefully-oiled  hair, 
the  dashing  green  tie,  the  snowy  apron  fastened  at  the  back 
with  one  of  those  heart-shaped  pins  all  good  grocers  seem  to 
wear.  Dolf  knew  Tom  Wainwright  by  heart;  she  recognised 
success  in  every  line  of  him. 

She  saw  him  as  in  a  vision  piling  up  capftal  slowly  and 
surely,  coaxing  business  away  from  other  people.  There  was 
not  a  speck  of  romance  in  all  his  body  and  soul,  but  Mrs. 
Tom  Wainwright  would  always  be  an  enviable  person.  Her 
clothes  would  be  sound  and  prosperous,  her  children  fat  and 
healthy,  her  husband  looked  up  to  with  approval.  Tom  knew 
his  value;  he  always  patronised  a  girl  very  faintly  yet  con- 
sciously. And  she  knew  she  interested  Tom,  and  she  knew 
Tom's  wife  would  always  live  in  Avonbridge  and  be  dull  and 
respectable  and  domestic  and  housewifely.  On  the  other  hand, 
Tom's  wife  would  never  be  poor,  always  be  envied.  .  .  . 

From  the  expression  of  his  back  she  knew  he  was  aware  of 
her.  He  would  be  too  proud  to  turn  round — yet.  Without 
looking  at  him  she  stood  upon  the  lowest  step  of  the  flight 
and  set  her  right  foot  on  the  next  step  but  one  higher.  Reach- 
ing up  to  the  rail  on  which  it  hung,  she  began  slowly  to  re- 
drape  the  pink  frock.  Her  pose,  graceful,  kind  to  every  line 
of  her  slight  figure,  exhibited  quite  twelve  inches  of  slender  left 
ankle  in  the  contour  of  which  Dolf  had  perfect  confidence. 


DOLF  9 

Tom  Wainwright  turned  immediately.  For  a  second  Dolf 
held  the  pose.  Then,  glancing  across  the  street,  she  met  his 
eyes;  immediately  she  drew  up  the  left  foot  to  the  right,  sat 
on  the  top  step  and  pulled  her  short  skirt  anklewards  with 
that  gesture  every  girl  knows.  It  was  at  once  maidenly  and 
reproving.  A  fleeting  smile  rewarded  the  wave  of  Tom's  hand; 
then  gathering  the  pink  frock  in  her  arms,  Dolf  ran  down  the 
steps  into  the  shop  out  of  sight.  For  some  reason  her  eyes 
danced  as  they  had  not  danced  previously.  Joyfully  she  felt 
her  power;  somehow  it  made  the  world  seem  a  better  place 
for  a  girl  to  live  in. 

Into  the  shop  on  slow,  unenthusiastic  feet,  listless  with 
treading  a  path  they  never  chose  of  their  own  free  will,  came 
Dolf's  mother.  Her  years  numbered  thirty-seven  and  she 
might  equally  well  have  been  fifty  or  five  hundred.  For  all 
the  reality  in  her  existence  she  was  a  dead  woman.  She  had 
long  travelled  from  the  sentient  into  the  automatic.  Young 
unmarried  girls  might  well  shudder  when  she  passed  by.  She 
represented  not  so  much  the  ashes  of  a  dead  love  as  the  rot- 
ting wood,  the  decayed  paper  and  the  damp  coal  of  a  fire  laid 
long  years  ago  in  an  uninhabited  house  and  never  lighted. 
Otherwise  she  was  an  older  edition  of  Dolf. 

"We're  out  of  baking  powder,"  she  said  with  a  sort  of  dull 
irritation  against  fate.  "You  might  run  across  to  Wain- 
wright's  and  get  some.  Your  father  won't  like  it  if  I  don't 
make  a  tart  out  of  those  plums." 

"All  right,  mother,"  replied  Dolf,  half  reluctantly.  Out  of 
habit  she  patted  her  hair  and  smoothed  the  collar  of  her  frock 
with  instinctive  touches.  Her  mother  watched,  grimly  critical. 

"You're  at  the  silly  age  still,"  she  commented.  "I  don't 
know  why  you  think  such  a  lot  of  your  looks.  Looks  won't 
help  you  much,  my  girl.  They  don't  last  long  and  they  only 
bring  trouble  while  they  do." 

But  Dolf  had  fled  out  of  the  shop  with  a  longing  to  put  her 
fingers  in  her  ears.  She  told  herself  her  mother  was  old 


io  DOLF 

and  quite  wrong,  with  a  horrible  fear  that  she  must  inevitably 
be  right.  Mother  was  married,  tired,  finished.  But  of  course 
nowadays  things  were  different.  People  used  to  manage  so 
badly,  and  father  was  very  old — older  than  mother.  .  .  . 

She  passed  Tom,  still  intent  on  his  window.  Within  old 
Wainwright  leant  forward  over  the  counter  and  leered  at  her 
behind  his  pointed  white  beard,  and  carefully  clipped  mous- 
tache, much  as  a  satyr  might  ogle  a  confiding  wood-nymph. 
To  Dolf  he  seemed  faintly  ridiculous  as  old  men  do  when  they 
strut  for  the  benefit  of  young  girls. 

"And  what  can  we  do  for  you  this  beautiful  morning?"  he 
inquired  playfully,  his  moist  underlip  thrust  a  little  forward. 
"Pretty  as  a  picture  as  ever,  Miss  Dolf — breaking  all  the  young 
fellows'  hearts — and  the  old  ones'  too.  I'll  warrant  my  rascal 
of  a  son'll  be  dancing  attendance  in  a  minute — trying  to  cut 
out  his  own  father." 

"You  are  dreadful,  Mr.  Wainwright,"  murmured  Dolf  with 
the  large  charity  of  her  youth  and  sex.  "Mother  wants  some 
baking  powder,  please.  I'm  sure  Tom  never  even  troubled  to 
look  at  me."  As  a  matter  of  fact,  she  had  felt  his  eyes  all 
over  her  back,  and  even  then  he  was  peeping  through  the 
window. 

Old  Wainwright  hastened,  smirking,  to  serve  her.  He  placed 
the  packet  on  the  counter  as  though  it  were  a  diamond  neck- 
lace at  least.  His  greedy  old  eyes  devoured  her  slender  beauty 
so  patently  that  he  would  have  distressed  her  if  she  had  been 
less  amused.  These  ancient  flirts  always  made  her  laugh. 
On  the  way  back  Tom  stood  in  her  path. 

"Good  morning,"  he  said  meaningly. 

"Good  morning,"  returned  Dolf,  looked  straight  rt  him  and 
then  lowered  her  eyelids. 

"You  don't  take  much  notice  of  a  chap  these  days."  He 
was,  as  ever,  the  sultan  casting  favour  on  a  pretty  favourite. 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean.    I  haven't  been  rude,  have 


DOLF  ii 

I?  Not  that  it  would  matter  to  you  if  I  were,  I  expect, 
would  it?" 

For  a  second  she  smiled  into  his  irresolute  eyes.  Then,  with 
a  distracting  flutter  of  dainty  ankles  she  was  gone.  As  she 
entered  her  father's  shop,  drab  and  repellent  even  in  the  July 
sunshine,  Dolf  smiled  again.  Yet  again  that  morning  the  vic- 
torious thrill  ran  in  her  blood.  It  was  a  season  for  kisses, 
and,  there  being  no  one  in  the  wide  world  to  kiss,  she  stooped 
and  laid  her  lips  lovingly  against  the  breast  of  the  pink 
frock. 

Across  the  street  old  Wainwright  called  to  his  son.  The 
smirk  had  vanished  from  his  face,  leaving  it  hard  and  re- 
lentless. Tom  came  sheepishly,  conscious  of  unknown  guilt. 

"Listen  to  me,  my  lad,"  said  old  Wainwright.  "Don't  go 
making  a  fool  of  yourself  over  that  little  bit  of  pink  and 
white.  I've  got  eyes  in  my  head,  remember.  Your  business 
is  to  stick  to  my  business.  I've  got  the  whip-hand  here. 
You  have  to  look  to  me  for  every  penny  for  your  green  ties 
and  brown  boots.  I'll  see  about  a  wife  for  you  when  the  time 
comes.  Understand  me?" 

For  a  moment  father  and  son  glared  at  each  other.  Between 
them  the  sex  jealousy  of  the  male  burnt  with  a  most  vehement 
flame.  Then,  silently,  sulkily,  the  younger  turned  away. 

All  the  morning  Dolf  measured  yards  of  material  and  pre- 
tended interest  in  other  people's  clothes  with  increasing  bore- 
dom. The  sunlight  had  got  into  her  bones;  she  wanted  to 
play,  to  laugh,  to  be  admired.  Instead  she  endured  the  faint 
stuffy  smell  of  the  shop  and  had  her  dreams  darkened  by  its 
gloom.  Midday  dinner  only  added  to  her  depression. 

Dolf,  helping  a  tired,  resigned  mother  to  dish  up,  hated  her 
world  witlf  bitter  hatred.  She  loathed  the  dreary  room  behind 
the  shop,  the  stained  table-cloth,  the  odd,  cracked  crockery, 
the  black-handled  steel  forks.  She  hated  the  subdued  quar- 
relling and  scuffling  of  her  twelve-year-old  brother  and  her 
two  younger  sisters.  She  hated  the  boiled  rabbit;  her  father, 


12  DOLF 

elderly,  stout,  cold,  maddened  her  with  his  coarse  table  man- 
ners and  a  certain  sanctimonious  air. 

"George,"  he  commanded,  tucking  a  table  napkin  into  his 
collar,  "stop  your  noise  and  ask  a  blessing." 

The  children  bowed  their  heads  in  outward  reverence,  while 
George  gabbled  a  grace.  Mrs.  Farmer  helped  everyone  to  the 
steaming  rabbit.  An  odour  of  onion  filled  the  room.  They 
fed  in  silence,  cowed  by  the  austere  severity  of  the  father. 
Dolf,  conjuring  up  mentally  a  long  sequence  of  similar  meals 
past  and  meals  to  come,  felt  a  pitiful  longing  to  scream.  She 
wanted  a  little  joy  so  badly.  Desperately  she  resolved  to  make 
a  heroic  effort. 

When  the  children  had  scurried  out  she  approached  the 
silent  figure  of  her  father  bent  over  his  newspaper. 

"Father "  she  began. 

He  looked  up  coldly  over  his  glasses,  out  of  a  hard-lined, 
unsympathetic  face. 

"Well?" 

Dolf  twisted  nervous  hands,  fidgetting  one  foot  restlessly 
on  the  linoleum. 

"Father,  please  may  I  have  the  pink  frock?" 

Emotion  vitalised  the  cold  features  at  last — a  wave  of 
angry  contempt. 

"You  must  be  mad,  girl.  Do  you  suppose  I'm  made  of 
money,  with  four  of  you  to  keep,  and  your  mother?  Don't 
I  give  you  enough  clothes  as  it  is? — and  precious  little  I  get 
in  return.  You  think  of  nothing  but  gadding  about  dressed 
up  like  a  hussy.  Where's  your  religion  you've  been  taught? 
Don't  we  pray  for  our  daughters  to  be  like  the  polished  cor- 
ners of  the  Temple,  not  hussies  smothered  in  finery?  Be- 
sides, that's  a  dress  for  a  young  lady,  not  you." 

Dolf,  squeezing  her  hands  tighter,  still  persisted. 

"But,  Daddy,  Bank  Holiday '11  be  here  soon,  and  sports, 
and  a  fair,  and  everything.  And  it's  my  birthday  next  month, 
and  I  thought — you  generally  give  me  something.  I  could 


DOLF  13 

pay  for  it  partly.     I've  got  a  little  pocket-money  saved  up." 

Her  father's  face  flushed  with  rage. 

"You'll  not  have  the  dress.  Go  away  and  leave  me  in 
peace!"  he  thundered.  "Try  and  have  a  little  modesty  if  you 
can.  That  skirt  you've  got  on's  disgracefully  short." 

There  were  angry  tears  in  Dolf's  eyes  as  she  turned  away. 
Her  heart  felt  hard  and  bitter.  He  had  been  unreasonable, 
insulting,  she  thought  passionately.  Well,  if  he  asked  for 
rebellion  he  should  have  it.  When  the  shop  closed  for  the  day 
at  seven  o'clock,  she  went  to  her  mother. 

"I  want  to  go  out,  mother.  My  head  aches.  I  must  have 
some  fresh  air.  I  don't  want  any  supper.  Can  you  manage?" 

Mrs.  Fanner  considered  her  daughter  with  dull,  expression- 
less eyes.  Whatever  she  thought  lay  unrevealed. 

"Very  well,"  she  answered. 

Dolf  fled  to  her  room  like  a  mad  girl.  She  tore  off  her  black 
frock,  flung  it  on  the  bed  and  put  on  one  of  cool  blue  linen. 
She  hunted  out  imitation  blue  silk  stockings  and  a  pair  of  lit- 
tle white  canvas  shoes,  cheap  yet  effective.  She  brushed 
out  her  shining  mane  of  fair  hair  and  put  it  up  most  patiently, 
setting  on  it  a  soft,  wide-brimmed  straw  hat,  bent  craftily 
to  aid  the  charm  of  her  face.  Then  she  stole  down  to  the 
empty  kitchen  and  made  herself  a  cup  of  tea.  As  she  swal- 
lowed it  her  mother  came  in  and  stood  watching  her  for  a 
moment.  Whatever  she  thought,  she  said  nothing. 

A  sudden  gust  of  pity  for  her  tired,  loveless  mother  came 
over  Dolf.  For  a  second  she  flung  two  passionate  arms 
round  Mrs.  Farmer's  neck  and  pressed  her  young  mouth  to 
the  sallow  cheek.  Then  she  turned  and  fled. 

In  the  street,  on  the  other  side,  Tom  Wainwright  was  shut- 
ting his  father's  door  behind  him.  Dolf  half  glanced  at  him 
under  her  long  lashes.  She  strolled  slowly,  without  taking 
further  notice,  in  the  direction  of  the  river.  Tom  hesitated, 
glanced  doubtfully  up  and  down  the  street,  and  followed. 

In  his  office,  a  space  divided  from  the  shop  by  a  wooden 


i4  DOLF 

partition  panelled  with  frosted  glass,  George  Farmer  re- 
viewed broodingly  the  day's  business.  In  a  sense  his  office 
might  be  called  a  sacred  edifice,  for  none  of  his  family  dared 
disturb  him  there.  He  looked  up  fiercely,  therefore,  at  the 
apparition  of  his  wife,  and  smoothed  the  anger  from  his  face 
as  she  announced  old  Wainwright  and  left  the  two  men  alone. 

"Not  intruding,  I  hope,  George?"  inquired  Wainwright, 
almost  obsequiously. 

"No,  John;  an  old  friend's  always  welcome.  I  was  just 
running  through  the  day-book." 

Wainwright  seated  himself  thoughtfully  on  a  high  stool. 
He  seemed  preoccupied.  Then  he  came  straight  to  the  point. 

"We're  old  friends,  as  you  say,  George.  I  think  we  under- 
stand one  another  pretty  well.  We  must  have  sung  in  the 
choir  together  over  thirty  years.  It's  fifteen  since  my  poor 
wife  died.  I'm  a  lonely  man  compared  to  you,  with  your 
family  around  you." 

"Perhaps  so.  Man  was  not  meant  to  live  alone.  I  wonder 
you  never  took  a  second  wife,  John.  You're  a  fine  healthy 
man  still." 

The  two  looked  at  one  another  meaningly,  the  male  instinct 
lurking  in  their  eyes.  Beneath  their  words  they  did  indeed 
understand  each  other  pretty  well.  John  Wainwright  knew 
George  Farmer  meant:  "Why  voluntarily  do  yourself  out  of 
pleasures  you  can  afford?  You're  not  past  them  by  any 
means." 

"What  should  you  say  if  I'd  come  here  courting?"  he  went 
on.  "There's  no  use  mincing  one's  words.  How  would  you 
like  me  for  a  son-in-law,  George?" 

"You?" 

For  a  second  George  Farmer  started.  Then  a  peculiar  smile 
stole  over  his  face.  "You  mean  Dolf,"  he  went  on. 

Wainwright  nodded.  A  flush  stained  the  skin  above  his 
cheek-bones,  and  his  breath  quickened. 

"I  don't  see  why  not.    I'm  barely  fifty.    A  girl's  safer  with 


DOLF  15 

a  man  of  mature  years  than  with  these  boys.  You  know  what 
I  mean,  George.  She'd  never  want  for  anything,  as  you're 
aware.  I've  prospered  in  the  things  of  this  world.  I'm  willing 
to  make  settlements.  There's  her  brother,  a  promising  lad 
who  could  come  into  the  business  if  you  saw  fit.  And  that 
little  block  of  gas  shares  you  rather  fancy — we  wouldn't  quar- 
rel over  the  price,  George.  They  pay  twelve  per  cent." 

Dolf's  father  mused,  still  smiling  his  peculiar  smile.  Fancy 
John,  of  all  people!  Still,  she  was  a  pretty  girl,  and  John 
would  be  lucky  to  get  her.  Sound,  too,  from  the  girl's  point  of 
view. 

At  last  he  stretched  out  a  friendly  hand. 

"Of  course  I  must  talk  it  over  with  her  mother;  it's  a  mat- 
ter for  counsel,  and  prayer  for  guidance.  But  I've  no  personal 
objection,  John.  You  are  my  oldest  friend  and  she'll  be  a 
lucky  girl." 

With  a  sigh  of  satisfaction  old  Wainwright  gave  a  hearty 
grip.  He  had  made  his  bargain.  Few  men  could  brighten 
their  later  life  with  such  a  pretty  toy,  just  when  the  average 
man's  wife  was  absolutely  unattractive. 

"I'll  see  you  never  regret  this,  George,"  he  exclaimed. 
"My  old  friend's  daughter  will  be  doubly  precious.  Perhaps 
I'd  better  leave  you  to  break  it  to  Mrs.  Farmer.  Good  night 
to  you!" 

Outside  he  chuckled.  A  lot  Mrs.  Farmer  had  to  do  with  it! 
He  knew  George  pretty  well! 

As  he  let  himself  into  his  house,  George  Farmer  was  say- 
ing to  Dolf's  mother:  "John  Wainwright  wants  to  marry 
Dolf.  I  gave  him  my  permission.  The  girl's  settled  for  life 
now.  It's  a  very  suitable  marriage." 

For  once  Dolf's  mother  rose  above  her  usual  apathy.  She 
was  a  drudge  cowed  by  neglect  and  bullying,  but  even  as  a 
worked-out  slug  of  a  horse  will  leap  into  some  sort  of  pace 
if  only  the  whip  is  pitiless  enough,  she  turned  on  her  hus- 
band as  contemptuously  as  a  young,  pretty  woman  might  do. 


1 6  DOLF 

"How  dare  you  suggest  giving  a  young  girl  to  that  old 
man — and  you  that's  religious  too!"  she  demanded  savagely. 
Just  for  a  moment  her  own  departed  youth  came  and  stood 
before  her  mental  vision,  side  by  side  with  a  picture  of  Dolf 
in  the  kitchen  with  her  blue  eyes  and  her  blue  frock.  But 
George  Farmer  stood  no  nonsense. 

"I'm  your  husband  and  her  father,  and  I  know  best,"  he 
said  coldly.  "I  don't  want  any  foolishness.  Remember  I 
married  you  when  you  were  in  trouble  over  another  man. 
Dolf's  just  as  flighty  as  you  were;  like  mother,  like  daughter. 
She'll  be  quieter  married  to  a  steady  man.  Better  be  safe 
than  sorry." 

There  are  some  weapons  a  woman  cannot  face  in  the  hands 
of  such  as  care  to  use  them.  In  silence  Mrs.  Farmer  covered 
her  shamed  face  with  her  ordinary  mask  of  apathy. 

Dolf  stepped  delicately  along  the  river  path  perfectly  aware 
of  Tom's  pursuit.  Her  knowledge  of  being  the  dedicated  prey 
gave  her  a  subtle  allurement,  like  -the  swagger  of  a  crack 
regiment  out  on  a  forlorn  hope,  or  the  exulting  renunciation  of 
an  enthusiastic  martyr.  She  swayed  a  little  as  she  walked;  she 
seemed  fragrant  with  some  ineffable  perfume.  Back  from  the 
river  bank  stood  a  wooden  seat  hidden  behind  a  clump  of 
willows.  Here  Dolf  came  to  rest,  and  here  Tom  Wainwright 
found  her. 

He  had  become  a  victim  to  as  much  emotion  as  falls  to  not 
over-imaginative  young  men.  His  eyes  were  a  little  bright, 
his  cheeks  flushed,  he  had  small  difficulties  with  his  voice, 
and  his  hands  shook  slightly.  He  came  up,  raised  his  cap, 
and  sat  down  beside  Dolf. 

"What  have  I  done?  What  are  you  running  away  for?" 
he  asked  rather  complainingly,  and  Dolf  answered: 

"Fm  not  running  away.  Why  should  I?  I  came  out  for 
a  walk  because  my  head  aches.  If  you  aren't  going  to  be 
kind  to  me,  please  go  away.  I  put  up  with  enough  from 
father." 


CHAPTER  II 

His  arms  longed  to  enfold  her.  The  summer  twilight 
deepened;  there  was  no  sound  but  the  lap  of  water  and  the 
occasional  cry  of  a  sleepy  moor-hen.  The  slenderness  of 
Dolf's  ankles,  the  curve  of  her  neck,  the  sheen  of  her  hair 
overcame  him.  Her  face,  turned  away,  barely  showed  her 
little  straight  nose  and  appealing,  provocative  mouth. 

Suddenly  she  felt  herself  clasped  in  his  arms.  Her  whole 
body  seemed  to  soften  and  become  blended  with  his.  The 
wide  straw  hat  slipped  to  the  ground  as  he  turned  her  re- 
sisting head  towards  him  and  kissed  her  passionately  with 
great  masterful,  overwhelming  kisses  on  her  lips  and  throat. 
For  a  moment  it  was  sheer  shock  and  pain;  then  a  great 
happiness  stole  over  Dolf.  She  ceased  to  resist;  she  nestled 
gently  against  his  shoulder  and  gave  herself  up  to  the  dreamy 
delight  of  being  kissed. 

Her  mind  wandered  far  away  into  a  sort  of  fairy  story; 
this,  then,  was  the  beautiful  world  that  lay  laughing  in  the 
sun,  the  playground  of  splendid  lovers,  and  kisses  were  the 
magic  keys.  Who  kissed  you  mattered  little;  she  did  not 
love  Tom  and  she  knew  he  did  not  love  her  even  if  he  thought 
he  did.  It  was  not  so  much  who  kissed  you  as  the  emotion 
of  being  kissed,  the  strength  and  mastery  of  it  all,  which  made 
you  feel  such  a  little  girl. 

She,  being  a  girl,  cool-headed  and  in  absolute  control  of  the 
situation,  let  his  passion  run  its  course,  exhaust  itself  and 
become  articulate. 

"I  love  you,"  he  sighed  at  last.  "You're  the  prettiest  girl 
in  Avonbridge.  Any  man'd  feel  proud  to  walk  out  with  you. 
Be  my  sweetheart,  Dolf — do!  I  want  you.  I  don't  want  any 

17 


X8  DOLF 

other  girl.  Father'll  hate  it,  but  I  don't  care.  Will  you? 
Say  you  will,  Dolf,  please!" 

"We  mustn't  make  your  father  angry,"  murmured  Dolf, 
playing  with  her  happiness,  her  head  on  his  breast. 

"Oh,  to  blazes  with  that!  You've  got  to.  I'll  make  you. 
I  won't  let  you  go  till  you  promise.  Now!" 

His  arm  tightened  round  her  slight  figure  until  the  embrace 
was  sweet  agony. 

"All  right,"  gasped  Dolf,  "p'raps — if  you're  very  good. 
Now  you  mustn't  kiss  me  any  more.  Look  at  my  hair!" 

She  drew  away,  and  he  tasted  the  joy  of  watching  her  put 
it  up  with  swift,  accustomed  fingers.  As  they  stood  up  to  go 
homeward  she  held  her  mouth  just  for  a  second,  offering  it, 
waiting.  It  was  the  golden  climax  of  an  almost  perfect  idyll. 

It  is  the  law  that  happiness  must  be  bought  with  un- 
happiness,  generally  on  the  extended  payment  system.  Dolf 
reached  home  faintly  pink,  intoxicated  with  new  joy.  In  the 
drab  living-room  she  encountered  her  parents.  Her  mother 
sewed  in  silence;  her  father  read  his  trade  paper,  aloof  and 
forbidding.  He  radiated  that  tyranny  of  the  husband  and 
male  parent  which  chills  and  wet-blankets  so  many  homes. 
He  was  the  everlasting  potential  grumbler  and  complainer. 
He  looked  up  at  Dolf  as  she  entered,  a  long,  appraising  look, 
like  a  dealer  summing  up  the  points  of  a  horse. 

"Come  here,"  he  said,  "I've  got  some  news  for  you,  now 
you've  finished  gadding  about  the  streets." 

Dolf  went  and  stood  before  him.  She  had  a  cold  certainty 
that  the  news  could  not  be  good.  The  joy  faded  drearily 
out  of  her  blood,  and  her  face  wore  the  expressionless  mask  of 
the  child  before  its  parent. 

"John  Wainwright  has  been  here,"  he  went  on.  "He's 
asked  my  permission  to  marry  you.  I  don't  call  you  a  good 
wife  for  an  upright,  God-fearing  man,  Dolf.  You're  too 
flighty  and  sinful.  On  the  other  hand,  his  example  and  guid- 
ance would  be  the  best  things  for  you.  Your  mother  was  much 


DOLF  19 

the  same  at  your  age,  but  marriage  has  formed  her  character. 
I  gave  John  my  consent.  No  doubt  he'll  speak  to  you  him- 
self. You're  a  lucky  girl.  Try  and  make  him  a  good  wife." 

Something  incredibly  fierce  rose  up  in  Dolf's  heart,  the  reck- 
less courage  of  the  wild  thing  at  bay.  For  the  first  time  in  her 
life  she  looked  her  father  fearlessly  in  the  face  and  defied  him. 

"You  must  be  mad,  father!"  she  cried  scornfully.  "Me 
marry  John  Wainwright?  Why,  he's  old — as  old  as  you  are. 
You  can't  possibly  mean  what  you  say.  He  was  an  old  man 
when  I  was  a  little  girl." 

"Nonsense,"  retorted  George  Farmer  harshly.  "You  don't 
know  what  you're  talking  about.  He's  a  worthy  husband  for 
any  girl,  and  as  for  being  old,  he's  barely  fifty,  with  an  estab- 
lished business,  able  to  give  you  everything  you  want.  I 
know  far  more  about  these  things  than  you  do.  Your  head's 
full  of  romantic  nonsense." 

"Mother,"  exclaimed  Dolf,  turning  to  the  silent  figure, 
"you're  a  woman,  and  you  were  a  girl  like  me  once.  Do  you 
approve  of  this?  Would  you  like  me  to  marry  John  Wain- 
wright?" 

Marriage  had  formed  Mrs.  Farmer's  character.  She  looked 
up  with  her  expressionless  face  and  said,  without  any  obvious 
emotion:  "Your  father  knows  best,  Dolf.  He's  promised  Mr. 
Wainwright.  You  must  be  a  good  girl  and  obey  your  father." 

Into  one  hour  Nature  can  crowd  the  normal  development 
of  years.  Yesterday  Dolf  might  have  acquiesced.  To-day  she 
had  tasted  the  unknown  sweets  of  kisses — young  kisses.  She 
turned  to  her  father,  a  burning  spot  of  passion  on  either  cheek. 

"I'll  never  marry  him.  I'll  kill  myself  first,"  she  said  in 
tensely  low,  bitter  tones.  "You'll  never  make  me  do  it, 
father.  You  can't." 

Over  George  Farmer's  consciousness  stole  a  hitherto  un- 
known foreboding  of  defeat.  Outwardly  he  merely  scowled. 
A  year  or  two  earlier,  he  reflected,  he  would  have  beaten  her 
for  this. 


20  DOLF 

"Go  to  your  room,"  he  said  coldly.  "I'll  give  you  a  fortnight 
to  get  used  to  the  idea  before  John  Wainwright  speaks  to  you, 
and  that's  more  than  you  deserve.  The  Scriptures  tell  you  to 
honour  your  father  and  your  mother,  but  you've  nothing  more 
than  rebellion  to  offer  us."  He  felt  rather  pleased  at  impli- 
cating Dolf's  mother.  "Go  away  and  pray  for  an  obedient 
heart." 

Dolf  crept  up  to  her  little  room.  For  a  long  time  she 
crouched  by  her  window,  gazing  into  the  warm  silent  night, 
looking  up  at  the  pitying  remote  stars.  Then  she  undressed,  and 
for  a  moment  studied  her  young  prettiness  searchingly  in  her 
looking-glass.  A  sudden  thought  of  John  Wainwright  crossed 
her  mind.  With  a  shiver  she  crept  into  bed,  blew  out  the 
candle,  and  pulled  the  clothes  over  her  head. 

Every  day  a  wider  sea  of  silent  bitterness  rolled  between  Dolf 
and  her  father.  She  had  arrived  at  a  pitch  when  necessity 
knows  no  law,  and  anywhere  is  a  port  in  a  storm.  She  lived 
keyed  up  for  a  crisis  due  in  a  fortnight,  so  that  when  Bank 
Holiday  came,  a  week  after  the  vicarious  wooing  of  John  Wain- 
wright, Dolf,  casting  about  for  some  emotional  safety-valve, 
determined  to  borrow  the  pink  frock. 

Very  early  in  the  morning  she  stole  down  and  smuggled  it 
from  the  shop.  She  folded  it  lovingly  and  hid  it  in  her  room.  At 
mid-day  she  locked  the  door  and  put  it  on  with  delighted, 
trembling  fingers.  She  was  reckless  of  consequences;  after  all, 
what  could  he  do  to  her?  Nothing  worse  than  give  her  to  old 
John  Wainwright,  and  she  had  said  openly  death  was  prefer- 
able to  that. 

Dolf  slipped  downstairs  like  a  fallen  angel,  shrouded  in  her 
raincoat.  She  passed  her  mother  in  the  hall. 

"What've  you  got  on  that  coat  for  in  the  middle  of  summer?" 
asked  Mrs.  Farmer  apathetically. 

"To— to  keep  my  frock  clean,  mother.  Mr.  Hanway  half- 
promised  me  a  lift  down  to  the  river  in  his  van — he's  doing  the 


DOLF  2i 

refreshments — and  I  don't  want  to  get  crumpled,"  lied  Dolf 
hastily. 

She  ran  eagerly  along  the  passage  and  the  street  door 
slammed  behind  her.  On  the  river  bank  the  obliging  Mr.  Han- 
way  took  care  of  the  coat  for  her  in  his  refreshment  tent.  Dolf 
shook  out  the  folds  of  her  frock  and  the  wings  of  her  soul,  and 
wandered  into  the  sunshine. 

It  is  much,  much  better  to  be  first  in  a  little  Iberian  village 
than  second  in  Rome!  Dolf  knew  herself  the  prettiest  girl 
available  dressed  in  the  prettiest  frock.  Young  gentlemen  far 
above  her  social  standing  gave  her  languishing  glances;  per- 
fectly reckless,  being  a  victim  and  an  outlaw,  she  let  the  Vicar's 
nephew,  a  sub-lieutenant  in  the  Navy,  give  her  tea  and  hold 
her  hand.  He  was  very  beautiful,  but  impermanent,  so  that 
when  at  sunset  Tom  Wainwright,  in  his  best  suit,  arrived  scowl- 
ing after  prodigious  athletic  feats  at  the  sports  to  lay  his  vic- 
tories in  the  dust  before  her,  she  dismissed  her  sub-lieutenant 
gently  and  stood  with  hands  clasped  behind  her  back,  looking 
up  into  Tom's  face  like  a  very  good  little  girl  indeed. 

"But  he  only  took  me  to  tea,  and  you  weren't  here,  and  I 
couldn't  have  you  even  if  I  wanted,"  she  murmured. 

"I'll  take  it  out  in  kisses,"  announced  Tom  grimly.  He  looked 
round  with  haggard  eyes  for  the  necessary  shelter.  Every- 
where joyful  crowds  covered  the  landscape. 

"You  can't  kiss  me  here,"  objected  Dolf.  "It's  frightfully 
crowded.  Let's  go  away.  There's  the  cart-shed  in  your  father's 
field.  Nobody'd  see  us  there  and  we  can  stay  a  long  time 
because  it's  near  home.  I  needn't  go  in  till  nine." 

"Ten  you  mean.  All  right,  come  on.  We  shall  have  to  dodge 
the  back  window  of  the  house  or  else  father'll  see  us.  Anyway, 
it's  getting  dark." 

John  Wainright,  sitting  with  his  back  to  the  window  they 
escaped  indeed,  but  the  keen  eye  of  George  Farmer,  dropping  in 
for  a  drink  and  a  smoke,  perceived  the  two  figures  slink  along 


22  DOLF 

the  cart  road,  go  through  the  field  gate  and  glide  along  the 
hedge  to  the  shed  at  the  far  corner  of  the  field. 

"John,"  he  said,  "there  go  your  son  and  my  girl.  This  will 
never  do.  I  told  you  she  flared  up  at  the  idea  of  marrying  you, 
and  I  spoke  to  her  pretty  straight.  You  must  do  your  part 
with  the  lad,  you  know.  It  doesn't  give  me  a  chance  other- 
wise. Put  your  foot  down,  John." 

Wainwright's  face  darkened. 

"I've  put  it  down  once.  The  next  time  I'll  kick  him  out,"  he 
snarled.  "I've  given  him  every  chance,  the  ungrateful  whelp. 
I'll " 

"Steady,  John.  No  need  to  lose  your  temper.  You've  got  a 
key  to  the  shed,  I  suppose?  They've  shut  the  door  because  I 
can  see  it  from  here.  I've  good  eyesight,  John.  We  can  slip 
down  and  lock  them  in.  Then  in  an  hour  we'll  return  and  let 
them  out.  He'll  have  made  her  look  a  fool,  and  she  won't 
forgive  that.  Besides,  it'll  be  a  very  compromising  affair,  a  girl 
alone  with  a  young  man.  We'll  pretend  we  never  knew  they 
were  inside.  I  think  this  is  going  to  help  on  your  courtship 
a  good  deal,  John." 

Within  the  shed  Tom  had  flung  a  cart  cushion  on  a  couple  of 
boxes,  sat  down  and  taken  Dolf  into  his  arms. 

"Now  you  shall  pay  me  for  going  off  with  that  officer  fel- 
low," he  said,  half  seriously,  half  in  earnest.  Dolf  let  herself 
be  drawn,  resisting,  on  to  his  knee,  while  her  slight  body  in  his 
embrace  and  her  lips  under  his  kisses  made  expiation.  It  was 
part  of  her  philosophy,  the  system  on  which  she  had  been 
brought  up,  that  girls  were  always  naughty  or  faithless,  or 
clumsy,  or  forgetful  and  had  to  pay  for  their  faults.  A  man 
never  paid,  he  took  payment. 

They  did  not  hear  John  Wainwright  creep  up  and  turn  the 
key  silently  in  the  lock.  Dolf,  suffering  her  sweetheart's  crude 
and  violent  love-making,  spun  a  web  of  dreams  in  her  quick 
brain.  Already  the  first  honey  of  kisses  had  passed.  She  was 
comparing  her  sub-lieutenant  with  Tom.  The  sub-lieutenant 


DOLF  23 

had  certainly  eclipsed  Tom,  and  made  her  want  to  be  a  neater, 
sweeter  maiden  in  a  cleaner,  greener  land.  Her  quick  percep- 
tion already  realised  there  was  something  finer,  more  spiritual 
than  mere  village  amours.  Ten  strokes  from  the  church  clock 
woke  her  to  reality. 

"Oh,  Tom,  we  must  go.  It's  awfully  late.  And  look  at  my 
frock." 

The  tragedy  of  her  borrowed  glory,  crumpled  and  creased 
beyond  all  hope,  sank  deep  into  her  young  mind.  There  would 
be  a  bitter  reckoning  for  this  play  day.  A  muttered  curse  from 
Tom  fell  on  her  ears.  He  fumbled  in  vain  with  the  door. 

"Someone's  locked  it.  We  can't  get  out.  What  on  earth 
are  we  to  do?"  he  exclaimed  fretfully.  "A  nice  thing  to  be 
found  here  together  in  the  morning.  This  is  your  doing,  Miss 
Dolf!" 

"But  I  never  locked  it,  and  you  wanted  to  come  here,  Tom!" 

Outside  old  Wainwright  and  George  Farmer,  sitting  smoking 
on  a  roller,  heard  the  subdued  creak  of  the  door,  and  glanced 
at  one  another.  Five  minutes  later  Wainwright  got  up,  walked 
slowly  to  the  shed  and  unlocked  the  door  with  great  delibera- 
tion. He  started  back  in  affected  horror  at  the  sight  of  Tom 
and  Dolf,  clearly  silhouetted  in  the  moonlight. 

"What's  this?  What  are  you  doing  here?  Who's  that  girl 
with  you?  Not  George  Farmer's  daughter?  God  bless  my 
soul!  So  it's  come  to  this,  Tom,  and  with  the  daughter  of 
my  oldest  friend.  What  have  you  to  say  for  yourself?" 

He  turned  on  George  Farmer  a  shocked,  pious  face. 

"George,  will  you  speak  to  your  girl?  She's  here  with  Tom, 
late  at  night,  locked  in  my  shed.  Things  look  very  black  in- 
deed." 

George  Farmer  drew  close  to  Dolf.  Anger  came  easily  to 
him;  he  would  always  rather  blame  than  praise.  But  the 
pink  frock  flung  down  the  scale  against  her.  She  was  hurting 
his  pocket  as  well  as  his  pride. 

"You  Jezebel!"  he  snarled.    "What  are  you  doing  here  at 


24  DOLF 

night  with  a  young  man?  What  are  you  doing  in  that  dress? 
Must  you  add  thieving  to  your  other  sins?  You're  no  daughter 
of  mine.  Here's  an  upright  man;  he's  asked  you  in  marriage, 
and  this  is  how  you  repay  him,  by  luring  his  son  to  destruction. 
What  am  I  to  say  to  him?  How  can  I  hide  my  shame  in  you?" 

John  Wainright  raised  his  hand. 

"No,  George,  the  fault  is  my  son's.  He's  older  than  your 
girl.  He  knows  my  wishes,  for  I've  made  them  plain.  He 
chooses  to  defy  me.  You'd  better  go,"  he  went  on,  turning 
to  Tom,  who  stood  shame-faced  and  sulky.  "I'll  speak  to  you 
in  the  morning  when  I've  slept  on  this.  Leave  us." 

Sullenly  the  young  man  slunk  away.  He  felt  unutterably 
foolish,  and  that  is  purgatory  to  young  men. 

"Your  father's  told  you  my  hopes  concerning  you,  Miss 
Dolf,"  went  on  old  Wainwright  more  gently.  "I  don't  say  this 
makes  any  difference.  I  believe  it  was  just  silliness.  All  I 
ask  is  that  you'll  not  refuse  this  marriage  I've  set  my  heart 
on.  I'll  undertake  that  your  father  will  forgive  you,  too.  I've 
a  great  love  for  you  that  you'll  realise  easier  later  on." 

Dolf  saw  him  as  he  was,  with  desire  in  his  eyes  and  covetous- 
ness  in  his  heart,  an  old  man  longing  for  a  young  plaything,  a 
despoiler  of  her  youth.  She  stood  straight  and  defiant  in  the 
moonlight  and  her  voice  rang  with  scorn. 

"You  want  me,  but  you'll  never  have  me.  I'd  rather  do  any- 
thing— anything,  you  understand.  Father  can't  make  me,  no 
one  can.  I  belong  to  myself  and  no  one  else.  I  won't  marry 
you,  I  hate  you!  I'll  never  speak  to  you  again." 

She  paused,  panting  with  emotion  and  a  wild  frenzy  of  in- 
dependence. Then,  in  a  reaction  of  terror,  she  fled  home  with- 
out looking  back  and  locked  herself  in  her  room. 

Furtively,  in  sheer  animal  terror,  she  undressed  and  wrapped 
herself  in  a  coat.  She  dared  not  go  to  bed.  She  heard  her 
father  return  with  heavy  footsteps.  His  loud  voice  below  filled 
her  with  new  dread.  She  feared  even  physical  violence.  Grad- 
ually the  sounds  died  away,  her  parents  went  up  to  bed,  the 


DOLF  25 

house  became  still.  But  to  Dolf  the  stillness  brought  no  calm. 
She  could  not  rest.  To-morrow,  day  after  day,  would  bring  new 
horrors,  revilings,  persuasions.  She  could  not  face  it.  She 
lacked  confidence  in  her  own  will.  One  day,  sooner  or  later,  she 
would  give  before  the  storm,  consent,  be  married  to  old  John 
Wainwright. 

"No!"  gasped  Dolf.    "No!  No!  No!" 

Quietly,  sweating  with  fright,  she  stole  from  her  room,  down 
the  stairs,  into  the  kitchen.  Holding  her  breath  to  still  a  leap- 
ing heart,  she  unlocked  the  back  door  and  crept  out  along  the 
lane,  stealing  from  shadow  to  shadow  until  she  found  herself 
at  the  back  of  Wainwright's  house,  beneath  Tom's  window. 
Then  she  flung  pebble  after  pebble  until  the  raised  sash  showed 
his  astonished  face. 

"Come  down,"  breathed  Dolf.  "You  must  come  down  and 
hear  what  I've  got  to  say.  Oh,  Tom,  you  must!  I'm  so  alone, 
so  helpless.  Everybody's  against  me  and  I'm  frightened.  Do 
come." 

He  felt  a  man's  nausea  at  a  woman's  gambling  on  her  help- 
lessness when  she  knows  he  can  do  nothing.  With  a  shrug  of 
disgust  he  turned  away,  dragged  on  a  raincoat  and  tiptoed 
down  into  the  moonlight. 

"You  little  fool,"  he  said  in  bitter  fury.  "Go  home.  Haven't 
you  done  harm  enough?  Father'll  kick  me  out  in  the  morning. 
Do  you  s'pose  you're  worth  being  chucked  into  the  gutter  for? 
Why  aren't  you  in  bed?" 

The  coat  fell  away  from  Dolf.  She  stood  a  pathetic  figure 
in  her  nightgown,  with  tears  slowly  welling  out  and  rolling  down 
her  cheeks. 

"I  can't!"  she  gasped.  "I  can't  go  home.  It's  father — he's 
horrible,  ghastly.  He'd  give  me  to  your  father."  She  shud- 
dered. "Come  away  with  me,  Tom.  We  can  get  married  later, 
somehow.  I  don't  want  to  go  alone.  A  girl  wants  someone 
— just  one  person  in  the  world.  I  wouldn't  be  a  bother,  and 


26  DOLF 

I'd  do  everything  you  wanted.  Do  help  me,  Tom.  You  said 
you  loved  me.  I — I  love  you,  too." 

Over  Tom's  face  came  man's  smirk  of  propriety  peculiar 
to  those  circumstances  when  it  is  an  advantage  to  him. 

"You're  a  wicked  girl,"  he  said  solemnly.  "I  really  believe 
you  are  wicked.  You're  not  dressed  either,  not  decent.  Go 
back  home  and  try  to  do  better.  I'm  ashamed  of  you!" 

Dolf  saw  him  and,  in  him,  Man  as  a  species,  with  an  awful 
clarity  of  vision.  She  marked  his  unkempt  hair,  his  face  al- 
ready noticeably  unshaved,  his  untidy  slippered  feet,  all  the 
crude  unattractiveness  of  the  male  in  the  raw,  sleep-ridden 
state.  Then  and  there  her  last  illusion,  the  ultimate  remnant 
of  a  love-tinted  fairyland,  fled.  Bitterly  she  turned  away. 

In  the  shelter  of  her  room  she  dressed  slowly,  methodically 
in  her  best  blue  coat  and  skirt.  To  the  pink  frock  she  pinned 
this  briefest  of  farewell  notes:  "I've  gone.  I  shall  not  come 
back.  Don't  try  and  make  me. — Dolf."  Then,  taking  her 
entire  savings,  barely  five  pounds,  she  started  to  walk  to  the 
next  village,  four  miles  away.  There  was  an  early  train  to 
London  at  five  a.  m.  And  in  London  there  lived  her  one  rela- 
tive likely  to  sympathize,  her  mother's  sister,  widow  of  a 
traveller  in  the  drapery  trade,  keeper  of  a  cheap  boarding  house. 

She  tramped  on  automatically,  her  heart  one  dull,  sick  ache. 
But  as  the  distance  lengthened  between  her  and  home,  life 
came  into  her  step,  her  chin  lifted  insensibly.  Youth  is  so 
easily  intoxicated  with  the  wine  of  adventure. 

On  the  station  a  porter  whistled  cheerfully.  He  opened  the 
carriage  door  for  her  and  waved  as  the  train  left.  He  always 
waved  to  pretty  girls. 

Dolf  leaned  out  of  her  carriage  window  and  sighed.  A  hush 
brooded  over  the  earth;  in  the  east  a  pink  flush  stained  the 
fleecy  clouds.  She  filled  her  lungs  with  the  sweet  morning  air 
and  was  no  longer  afraid  of  the  terror  by  night.  Instead,  she 
smiled,  and  in  sudden  promise  of  victory  the  risen  sun  flung  a 
golden  pathway  across  the  blue  desert  of  the  sky. 


CHAPTER  III 

MRS.  BAINBRIDGE  leant  back  in  the  rep-covered  armchair  be- 
fore the  cheery  fire,  her  hands  folded  in  a  comfortable  lap,  bless- 
ing her  niece  with  a  fat  smile.  Above  her  basement  bed-sitting- 
room  her  boarders  drowsed,  sunk  in  Sunday  afternoon  reflec- 
tion. Tea  and  buttered  toast  stood  on  a  round  mahogany  table; 
the  stuffed  birds  over  the  mantelpiece  gazed  fixedly  at  the 
plaque  of  Queen  Victoria  opposite.  The  what-not  and  the  chif- 
fonier lent  dignity  to  an  apartment  that  enshrined  the  defunct 
splendour  of  Mrs.  Bainbridge's  married  life. 

"What  I  says  is,  you're  in  good  'ands,"  observed  that  lady 
complacently.  "You  take  after  your  mother  and  my  poor 
'usband  that's  gone.  I  say  nothing  against  your  father  ex- 
cept that  the  Farmers  never  was  no  good.  Your  father's  led 
your  mother  a  life,  my  dear,  and  you,  too.  Now  you've  come 
to  me,  your  aunt  by  marriage,  and  your  auntie'll  look  after 
you.  'Ave  another  cup  of  tea,  dearie,  and  don't  be  afraid  of 
the  toast." 

Dolf,  curled  up  in  the  other  rep-covered  armchair,  stared  at 
her  aunt  with  eyes  like  wood-violets.  Seventeen  has  many  long 
thoughts.  This  Tallentyre  Square  boarding-house  seemed  a 
cross  between  Heaven  and  Buckingham  Palace  after  drudging 
in  a  country  drapery. 

The  fat,  complacent  voice  of  Mrs.  Bainbridge  continued  to 
break  dreamily  on  her  consciousness. 

"You've  got  the  looks  and  by  and  by  you'll  have  the  savvy. 
You  ought  to  do  well,  my  dear,  in  an  establishment  like  Hoi- 
bridge  &  Sellingbourne's,  where  your  auntie's  influence  'as  got 
you.  It's  a  mercy  my  pore  'usband  was  respected  in  the 
drapery  business.  A  girl  gets  a  good  many  chances  in  them 

27 


28  DOLF 

places,  and  you  can  always  look  the  lady.  If  you  can't  get  the 
style  at  the  best  drapers  in  London,  then  there  ain't  any  style 
to  be  'ad.  And  as  you're  under  my  roof  all  I  say  is,  I  don't 
ask  you  to  be  good,  but  be  careful.  Remember,  it's  only  a 
plain  girl  that  need  'ave  any  trouble.  It's  your  business  to  take 
everything  and  give  nothink.  You  must  'andle  the  gentlemen, 
'andle  them.  It  soon  comes  easy,  and  the  more  you  puts  it  over 
them  the  more  they  thinks  of  you." 

Dolf 's  mouth  trembled  into  a  smile. 

"I  love  men,"  she  said  dreamily,  "nice  men.  Common  men 
want  to  order  you  about,  but  nice  men  just  look  after  you.  I 
only  knew  one.  He  was  a  naval  officer." 

"You'll  see  all  sorts  in  London,"  prophesied  Mrs.  Bain- 
bridge,  pouring  tea  thoughtfully  from  her  cup  into  her  saucer. 
"But  if  'e's  no  money,  leave  'im.  You  wants  someone  to  pay 
your  theatres  and  chocolates.  There's  a  Mr.  Senlake  in  this 
very  boardin'-'ouse,  as  nice  a  gentleman  as  you  could  wish,  but 
he  owes  me  four  weeks,  and  'e'll  have  to  go.  Pretty  manners 
won't  pay  no  board  bills,  though  he  is  that  attractive.  There 
have  been  women  'ere  fair  mad  on  'im — one  used  almost  to 
waylay  'im  in  the  'all.  I  keeps  my  eyes  shut,  but  she  'ad  to 
go.  She  worried  the  other  boarders,  and  one  of  the  two  'ad  to 
leave,  so  I  told  her  her  room  was  bespoke." 

"Why  the  girl,  auntie?"  queried  Dolf.  "You  said  Mr.  Sen- 
lake  couldn't  pay.  And  you  wouldn't  let  a  girl  run  into  debt; 
nobody  would." 

"Mr.  Senlake  has  the  drawing-room  floor  bedroom  and  full 
board,"  replied  Mrs.  Bainbridge  crushingly.  "  'E's  a  gentle- 
man and  don't  do  no  work  and  can  afford  to  owe.  They've 
always  got  relations  who  stump  up.  She  'ad  an  attic  and  her 
breakfast,  and  paid  reg'lar.  You  can't  teach  me  my  business 
at  my  time  of  life,  dearie." 

Dolf  stretched  her  feet  towards  the  fire  with  a  little  dreamy 
sigh,  like  a  luxurious  cat  full  of  cream  and  content.  Life  with 
a  very  large  L  beckoned,  and  life  never  beckons  in  vain  to 


DOLF  2$ 

pretty  seventeen.  She  divined,  as  in  a  vision,  glorious  golden 
adventures  with  really  nice  men  having  the  charm  and  protec- 
tive instincts  of  naval  officers.  She  smiled  across  at  her  aunt 
as  one  houri  to  another,  and  her  aunt  nodded  back. 

"I  been  a  handful  in  me  time,"  she  confessed,  "and  I  don't 
say  even  now  I'm  past  a  cuddle  if  the  right  gentleman  chances 
along.  It'd  'a'  bin  a  dull  life  since  my  pore  'usband  was  killed 
in  the  railway  accident  if  I  was.  You  take  after  me,  and  men's 
your  lay  right  enough.  But  they  must  be  rich.  A  pore  man's 
no  man  at  all  for  a  pretty  girl — worse,  for  'e  simply  gets  in  'er 
way.  Remember,  dearie " 

Sitting  by  her  fire,  through  a  whole  Sabbath  evening,  Mrs. 
Bainbridge,  a  widow  woman,  developed  her  favourite  theme  of 
men. 

Next  day,  in  their  dressing-room  at  Holbridge  &  Selling- 
bourne's  Dolf  stood  shyly  amongst  a  score  of  girls  in  various 
stages  of  disrobing.  It  was  the  hour  when  they  put  off  in- 
dividual fancies  in  garments  and  merged  themselves  in  the  cal- 
culated black  silk  effect  of  their  House  of  Business.  Little  light- 
hearted  Rosamund  or  Doris  lay  on  the  floor,  so  to  speak,  amid 
the  street  suit  of  liberty,  while  a  sort  or  neutral  person  stood 
clad  in  the  underclothes  of  her  choice  before  putting  on  with 
her  business  uniform  the  responsibilities,  the  manner,  even  the 
voice  and  intonation  of  Miss  Smith  or  Miss  Robinson  of  the 
haberdashery  or  the  millinery. 

Dolf's  future  lay  in  the  gowns  department.  Her  mission  in 
life  for  the  moment  would  be  to  hold  pins,  scissors  and  tape- 
measure,  while  the  Supreme  Being  of  the  place  moulded  silken 
miracles  around  the  acquiescent  form  of  Moddam  or  My  Lady. 
Being  but  a  door-keeper  in  the  House,  they  had  chosen  for  her  a 
meek  and  simple  frock  with  a  low  collar  very  kind  to  her 
fair  throat,  and  an  innocent  style  of  hair-dressing.  With  cold 
excited  fingers  she  put  on  these  disguises  as  she  had  been  told 
to  do,  drawing  frantic  gasps  of  courage  from  the  loving  lines 
of  the  frock  and  her  long  black  silk  legs. 


30  DOLF 

A  tall  dark  beautiful  girl  with  a  perfect  figure  lounged  up 
to  Dolf ,  surveying  her  with  an  appraising  eye.  This  person  en- 
joyed a  sort  of  calm  effrontery  and  self-confidence  that  seemed 
good  enough  to  carry  her  anywhere  she  cared  to  choose  in  a 
hostile  world.  She  leant  against  the  back  of  a  chair  and  smiled. 

"New,"  she  asserted  rather  than  asked;  "strange,  frightened 
to  death  and  doesn't  want  to  show  it.  You're  the  new  kid  in 
our  department,  I  guess.  Well,  nobody's  going  to  eat  you  un- 
less you're  a  fool.  Old  Ma  Richards,  the  boss  woman's  a  good 
sort.  My  dear,  you're  like  a  little  ghost.  Come  here!" 

The  goddess  took  a  lip-stick  and  ran  it  wisely  across  Dolf's 
mouth.  She  applied  a  very  little  rouge  to  the  pale  cheeks  so 
that  it  looked  very  nearly  lifelike.  She  dusted  powder  over  the 
face  with  the  lightness  of  a  falling  snowflake,  and  gave  a  hinted 
curve  to  the  eyebrows  with  a  cunning  finger  tip.  She  examined 
Dolf's  nails,  frowned  slightly,  and  did  a  little  deft  work  with 
nail  polish  and  a  pad. 

"Now  hold  your  chin  up  and  don't  choke  with  nerves  and 
you'll  do,"  she  ended,  and  laughed  with  such  genuine  amuse- 
ment that  Dolf  broke  into  a  shaky  smile. 

"I'm  Netta  Blatchley.  I'm  head  mannequin  and  wear  the 
most  'spensive  gowns  in  the  way  that  makes  fat  old  women 
buy  them.  Like  this! " 

She  threw  up  her  head  in  a  haughty  stare,  curved  her  beauti- 
ful body  into  a  faintly  arrogant  pose,  and  drifted  past  Dolf  as 
if  hers  were  the  earth  and  everything  that's  in  it. 

"Gets  them  every  time,"  she  explained  casually.  "What's 
your  name?" 

"Dolf.    Dolf  Farmer." 

"You  look  like  Dolf.  It  suits  you.  Just  a  little  more  buck, 
and  you'll  be  leading  a  devil  of  a  life.  Have  you  got  a  boy?" 

"No,"  murmured  Dolf  with  her  faint  smile.  "I've  only 
just  come  to  London.  I  don't  know  anybody." 

"You  must  have  a  boy,"  insisted  Netta  with  emphasis.  "You 
want  someone  to  pay  for  your  good  times.  A  girl  can't  keep 


DOLF  31 

alive  without  good  times  and  we  can't  afford  them  ourselves  on 
our  screws.  Besides,  you  can't  have  a  good  time  without  a  man. 
Leave  it  to  me,  and  I'll  get  you  off.  It's  very  important  to  get 
the  right  kind  of  boy,  especially  for  a  kid  like  you.  You  don't 
want  some  experienced  old  brute  who'll  scare  you  to  death  and 
then  chuck  you  'cos  you  don't  know  the  ropes.  You  want  a 
boy  who'll  kiss  you  and  take  care  of  you — for  a  bit,  anyway. 
Boys  are  like  lambs — they  grow  up  awful  quick." 

She  laughed  again.  Dolf  silently  admired  her  big  brown 
eyes,  perfectly  kept  teeth  and  irresistible  atmosphere  of  cour- 
age and  vitality. 

"I  needn't  ask  if  you've  got  a  boy,"  she  said  in  open  ad- 
miration. 

A  swift  shadow  flickered  over  the  eyes  of  the  elder  girl.  She 
glanced  round  to  see  if  they  could  be  overheard. 

"Oh,  I  run  to  a  friend  and  a  flat,"  she  retorted  carelessly. 
"D'you  know  what  that  means,  or  are  you  too  young?" 

"Oh,  yes,  I  know.  Even  country  girls  know  about  men," 
explained  Dolf  with  gentle  contempt.  "Is  he  good  to  you?" 

"Oh,  Billy's  not  a  bad  sort  as  men  go.  He's  away  just  now. 
But  I  want  Ronnie  Mainwaring  for  you.  He'll  come  in  with 
Mrs.  Bertie,  his  mother — he  always  does.  She's  got  a  fitting 
this  morning.  Ronnie's  a  nice  kid,  just  over  twenty  and  he 
loves  girls  and  any  girl  could  have  him  on  a  string.  He's  got 
what  he  calls  ideals,  and  that  makes  him  easy.  He  was  keen 
on  me,  but  he  didn't  suit  my  book.  I'm  not  a  baby-snatcher, 
and,  anyway,  Ronnie  lives  at  home  and  Mrs.  Bertie  knows  too 
much.  Come  on,  or  else  we'll  be  late." 

Dolf  followed  her  rejoicing  into  a  land  where  it  was  always 
afternoon,  a  paradise  of  salons  in  brown,  white  and  gold,  peo- 
pled with  attendant  peris  who  spoke  in  hushed  reverential  voices 
of  the  celestial  robes  that  were  their  care.  Life  went  to  a  music 
of  soft,  amorous  silken  garments  always  priced  in  guineas  and 
those  not  a  few.  Wayward,  expensively-shod  feet  glided  over 
thick  carpets,  as  women  curved  their  pampered  bodies  into  bro- 


32  DOLF 

caded  chairs  and  ransacked  the  treasures  of  the  place  to  enjoy, 
if  possible,  a  new  thrill.  In  some  cases  they  oppressed  the  at- 
tendants, but  these,  from  long  experience,  worked  on  their  souls 
with  cunning  suggestions  and  always  prevailed. 

Again  and  again  Dolf  watched  Netta  trail  past  some  society 
woman  whose  greedy  eyes  envied  her  perfect  young  body,  chin 
tilted,  satin  shoulders  innocent  even  of  a  shoulder  strap,  every 
lovely  line  triumphant  under  its  thin  silken  sheath.  Or  again 
she  would  patter  up  and  down  with  the  quick,  eager  step  proper 
to  the  occasion  and  show  the  paces  of  a  walking-suit  set  off 
to  perfection  by  exactly  the  right  hat,  shoes  and  stockings — 
and  Netta.  Afterwards  the  client,  having  bought  only  the 
suit,  would  wonder  pettishly  why  it  looked  differently  on  her. 

At  half  past  eleven,  warned  by  certain  secret  information  se- 
cretly conveyed,  Netta  drifted  across  to  Dolf. 

"They're  coming,"  she  murmured  through  still  lips,  "Mrs. 
Bertie  Mainwaring  and  Ronnie.  Don't  do  a  thing  till  I  tell 
you.  Don't  even  look  at  him.  Go  and  pretend  to  brush  those 
hats  on  that  stand." 


CHAPTER  IV 

THERE  entered  the  salon  a  typical  modern  woman  of  forty, 
faultlessly  attired,  her  cool  stare  and  faint  suggestion  of  bore- 
dom scarcely  revealing  the  fact  that  she  fought  the  passing 
years  desperately  with  bomb  and  bayonet,  horse  foot  and  guns, 
from  the  rising  of  the  sun  till  the  going  down  thereof.  In  the 
evening  an  armistice  took  place  because  artificial  light  is  kind. 

Accompanying  her  came  a  boy  of  twenty  or  so,  evidently  her 
son,  the  kind  of  boy  only  England  produces.  His  carefully  de- 
vised sports  had  given  his  slight  figure  athletic  development,  his 
clothes  came  from  the  right  places,  his  manners  were  charming, 
his  intelligence  rudimentary  and  his  experience  nil.  Of  respon- 
sibilities he  knew  and  understood  nothing.  He  had  achieved 
precisely  the  art  of  captaining  a  cricket  eleven,  and  he  would 
rather  have  died  than  dine  with  a  coloured  handkerchief  tucked 
into  the  V  of  his  dress  waistcoat. 

Mrs.  Bertie  Mainwaring  passed  into  the  fitting  chamber; 
her  son  remained  outside  to  wait  for  her. 

It  became  evident  that  Netta  and  he  were  acquaintances. 
He  strolled  across  to  the  small  collection  of  hats  and  fingered 
one  dubiously.  Then  he  glanced  interrogatively  at  Netta.  With 
a  smile  suggesting  humble  gratitude  at  being  noticed  she  writhed 
towards  him.  They  entered  into  conversation,  obviously  con- 
cerning the  hat,  for  Netta  placed  it  coquettishly  on  her  dark, 
wavy  head  and  posed  submissively  for  Man's  inspection.  Ron- 
nie's glance  wandered  discreetly  to  Dolf,  meekly  brushing  al- 
ready immaculate  headgear.  Desirous  worship  appeared  in  his 
eyes;  her  slender,  appealing  beauty  smote  him  with  its  ten- 
derness and  helplessness. 

33 


34  DOLF 

"Miss  Farmuh!"  called  Netta's  business  drawl,  "bring  the 
saxe  panne  beret,  and  the  mettle  rose  picture  hat,  please." 

Dolf  came,  bringing  her  treasures,  her  eyes  not  less  velvet 
than  the  saxe  panne.  Ronnie  extended  a  hand  for  the  picture 
hat  and  his  fingers  touched  hers.  A  faint  colour  ran  into  Dolf's 
cheeks ;  she  dropped  her  eyelids  with  their  long  fair  lashes. 

"If  you  would  excuse  me  one  moment,  sir,"  murmured  Netta. 
"These  are  just  a  few  specimens.  I  believe  we  have  what  you 
wish  in  the  millinery." 

She  curved  away  in  professional  humility  with  one  swift, 
wicked  glance  at  Ronnie. 

Dolf  stood  waiting  like  Esther  before  Ahasuerus,  and  in  her 
case  also  the  king  extended  his  golden  sceptre. 

"Netta  told  me  about  you,"  he  whispered,  still  making  play 
with  the  hat.  "I  asked  her — I  had  to.  You're  such  a  dear. 
I  want  to  know  you  awf'ly,  I  do,  really.  Won't  you  come  out 
with  me  on  Saturday?  I've  got  a  ripping  sidecar  outfit.  We 
could  go  out  into  the  country  and  have  tea  somewhere  if  you've 
nothing  better  to  do.  It's  a  scarlet  sidecar,  streamline,  and 
she'll  do  fifty  easy.  Do  come.  My  name's  Ronnie  Main- 
waring.  What's  yours?" 

Dolf  told  him,  casting  anxious  eyes  where  Netta  kept  watch 
in  the  offing.  Inwardly  she  smiled  at  his  eagerness.  Didn't 
he  realise  motoring  and  tea  were  hardly  to  be  refused  by  con- 
trast with  stuffy  loneliness  in  a  cheap  boarding-house?  She 
could  almost  see  him  quivering  at  the  effect  of  her  youth  and 
fairness. 

"Thank  you,"  she  murmured  after  a  pause,  during  which 
Ronnie's  heart  sank  with  uncertainty.  "I'd  love  to  come.  Will 
you  pick  me  up  at  Marble  Arch,  please?  Will  half-past  two 
do?" 

Even  as  he  assented  eagerly  came  Netta's  warning  voice  from 
the  distance. 

"Miss  Farmuh  wanted  in  the  fitting-room,  please.  Miss  Beres- 
ford,  will  you  show  the  gentleman  hats?" 


DOLF  35 

All  that  week  Dolf  woke  in  the  morning  with  the  divine  sen- 
sation that  something  nice  would  happen  soon.  Pushing  the 
fair  hair  out  of  her  eyes  as  she  dragged  herself  back  to  con- 
sciousness from  the  gates  of  sleep  she  knew  the  something  nice 
to  be  Saturday  and  Ronnie. 

"You  must  grab  him  from  the  beginning  and  hold  him  tight," 
repeated  Netta  again  and  again.  "You've  got  the  chance  of 
a  lifetime.  He  might  even  marry  you.  He's  young  enough 
and  dotty  enough  to  do  anything.  At  the  worst  it  means  a 
jolly  good  time  for  you  as  long  as  you  can  make  it  last." 

Dolf  smiled,  the  calmjsmile  of  perfect  content.  These  plot- 
tings  and  schemings  left  her  untouched.  All  she  knew  was  that 
to  be  with  Ronnie  was  to  be  near  a  white-hot  flame.  She  loved 
the  idea  of  playing  with  fire. 

"I  wish  I'd  got  anything  to  go  with  the  sidecar,  Netta.  He 
said  it  was  scarlet.  I've  nothing  but  dark  blue." 

"I'll  lend  you  something — a  skirt  and  a  jumper,  the  loveliest 
scarlet  you  can  think  of,  I  used  to  wear  roller-skating  last  win- 
ter. We  can  alter  it  to  fit  you  in  no  time,  and  you  can  wear 
black  silk  stockings  and  a  little  black  velvet  hat.  Nothing  sets 
off  a  girl's  legs  like  black  silk.  Come  round  to  the  flat  after 
business  and  we'll  fix  you  up." 

Day  by  day  Dolf  learnt  many  things.  The  wisdom  of  this 
world  came  to  her  in  the  dressing-room  chatter.  She  was  pop- 
ular and  the  girls  talked — of  their  boys,  their  adventures,  their 
hopes  and  escapes.  All  day  she  breathed  the  scented  sensuous 
atmosphere  of  clothes  and  learnt  from  the  well-bred  indolent 
women  who  bought  them.  There  were  more  creams  and  pow- 
ders and  puffs  and  manicure  tools  on  her  attic  dressing-table 
than  she  ever  dreamt  of  in  the  old  life  at  home. 

On  one  of  those  evenings  lying  between  her  and  Saturday, 
Dolf  wandered  with  faintly  lagging  footsteps  along  the  gray 
street  to  her  Bloomsbury  boarding-house.  The  sweet  lassi- 
tude of  the  air  intoxicated  her.  A  sigh  seemed  to  go  up 
from  London  lying  breathless  in  the  pale  gold  sunshine  like 


3  6  DOLF 

a  woman,  rapturous  in  the  discovery  that  she  is  not  yet  old, 
waiting  for  her  lover.  The  nesting  birds  twittered  from  every 
roof,  a  daffodil-seller  at  a  street  corner  was  vending  yellow  glory 
at  sixpence  a  bunch,  and  from  nowhere  in  particular  a  boy  in 
a  grey  suit  came  swinging  toward  her  with  worship  in  his 
eyes. 

His  light  clothes,  his  young  swift  movement,  his  good  looks 
matched  all  the  rest  and  his  sudden  almost  astounded  admira- 
tion was  for  her  only  a  crowning  glory  of  a  perfect  day.  She 
smiled  faintly.  She  would  have  been  neither  surprised  nor 
annoyed  if  he  had  stopped  and  spoken.  But  Ronnie  held  her 
thoughts  just  then  and  the  boy  in  grey  passed  on.  Yet  out 
of  her  haze  of  dreamy  content  she  knew  that  he  went  more 
slowly  than  he  came,  and  that  once  he  halted  outright,  as  if 
looking  back. 

On  Saturday  Ronnie  Mainwaring,  checking  his  eleven  horse- 
power twin-cylinder  motorcycle  at  the  curb-edge  opposite  the 
Marble  Arch,  caught  his  breath  at  the  sight  of  a  slight,  scarlet 
figure  with  long  black  silk  legs  ending  in  small  patent  shoes. 
He  swung  down  beside  her  and  raised  a  be-goggled  cap.  Dolf, 
outwardly  shy  and  sweet,  inwardly  calm  and  interested,  ad- 
mired under  lowered  lids  his  beautiful  breeches  and  gaiters, 
double-breasted  waterproof  and  great  gloves. 

"Good  afternoon,  Dolf,  darling." 

"Good  afternoon,  Mr.  Mainwaring." 

"Say  Ronnie!" 

"Ronnie,  then." 

She  smiled  and  looked  full  at  him.  His  hands  trembled  as 
he  helped  her  into  the  sidecar,  buttoned  the  apron  over  her  and 
adjusted  the  windscreen. 

"Where  shall  we  go?"  he  asked  breathlessly. 

"Anywhere  you  like,"  murmured  Dolf,  to  whom  all  roads 
were  one.  She  took  for  granted  his  ability  to  drive,  to  find  the 
right  place,  to  look  after  her  generally  with  the  pathetic  faith 
with  which  all  girls  are  born. 


DOLF  37 

"Let's  make  it  Buckinghamshire,  then,  and  picnic.  I've  got 
a  tea-basket  on  the  luggage  grid.  We  can  dine  somewhere  when 
we  get  back." 

He  got  into  the  saddle,  started  the  engine  and  introduced 
Dolf  to  the  vice  of  speed.  Ronnie  could  drive;  the  scarlet  out- 
fit seemed  alive  in  his  hands.  He  threaded  a  deft  path  through 
the  traffic  and  outside  town  the  big  engine  shook  off  the  miles 
without  an  effort.  Dolf  lay  back  in  a  dream,  watching  the 
boyish  figure  beside  her  juggle  with  his  toy.  Only  once  he 
slowed  a  little  in  the  quiet  of  the  country  to  lean  over  and  kiss 
her  once,  desperately,  straight  on  the  mouth.  Dreamily  she 
tilted  her  head  and  let  him.  After  all,  there  is  only  one  life  to 
live  .  .  . 

At  last  they  turned  from  the  main  road  and  climbed  up  and 
up  a  narrow  lane  on  second  gear.  The  lane  gave  place  to  green 
hillside;  finally  Ronnie  halted  at  a  little  patch  of  wood  below 
the  crest  of  the  hill. 

"Here,"  he  said  simply. 

He  lifted  Dolf  out  of  her  seat  and  stood  her  on  the  ground 
beside  him.  His  left  arm  went  behind  her  head  and  he  kissed 
her  with  long,  breathless  kisses,  until  his  passion  spent  itself  a 
little.  Dolf  let  him;  he  could  never  shake  her  inward  calm, 
but  she  loved  the  sensation  of  maddening  this  big  handsome 
boy. 

"You  mustn't!"  she  half  whispered  when  he  paused.  "I 
must,"  he  returned  unsteadily.  "You're  the  darlingest  thing 
and  I  love  you.  Let's  sit  down." 

He  spread  a  rug  on  the  grass  and  side  by  side  in  the  sun- 
shine of  early  summer  they  fed  one  another  on  Ronnie's  choco- 
lates. He  delighted  to  poise  them  on  her  lips  or  take  them  from 
her  manicured  fingertips. 

"You're  a  brick,"  he  murmured,  drawing  her  to  him  so  that 
her  head  nestled  against  his  tweed  shoulder.  Her  hat  had  fallen 
to  the  ground,  and  the  fair  hair  strayed  in  wavy  confusion. 
"And  you're  a  mysterious  witch,  too,  because  you're  as  cool 


38  DOLF 

as  ice  and  I  can't  make  your  heart  beat  a  shade  faster,  and 
mine's  thumping  like  blazes." 

"I'm  a  girl,  you  see.  Boys  are  more  silly  than  girls.  Are 
kisses  so  frightfully  exciting?  Haven't  you  ever  kissed  a  girl 
before?" 

The  little  slow  drawl  maddened  him  still  more  than  the  feel 
of  her  in  his  arms,  or  the  dainty  profile  turned  towards  him. 
Her  left  hand  played  idly  with  the  leather  buttons  of  his  coat. 
Suddenly  she  laughed — softly,  triumphantly,  half  tenderly,  and 
pressed  her  face  against  his  heart.  It  was  her  moment;  she  had 
conquered,  by  herself,  of  her  own  power. 

"Silly!"  she  crooned.  "You  are  a  baby  over  girls,  Ronnie — 
a  nice  baby,  though.  Aren't  you?" 

"P'rhaps,"  came  his  voice,  half  muffled,  his  lips  against  her 
bent  head.  He  leant  forward  and  stroked  one  ankle. 

"You've  got  the  loveliest  legs,  Dolf — simply  heavenly. 
Haven't  you?" 

Dolf  was  not  shocked;  from  her  earliest  years,  partly  from 
instinct,  partly  from  experience,  men  had  been  an  open  book 
to  her.  Nevertheless  she  knew  what  is  expedient. 

"Don't,"  she  said  in  a  small  cold  voice,  and  drew  away  from 
him. 

"Why  not?"  he  pleaded.  "You're  the  prettiest  thing,  Dolf, 
and  you  said  yourself  I'm  only  a  baby.  Where's  the  harm?" 

Smiling  inwardly  Dolf  turned  a  haughty  face  to  him.  She 
knew  her  power  drawn  from  her  girl's  reserve  of  sanity  that 
never  fails. 

"Because  I  don't  like  that  sort  of  thing.  We're  out  here 
alone  and  I  expect  you  to  behave  decently.  How  would  you 
like  some  man  to  take  your  sister,  if  you've  got  one,  out 
motoring  and  not  play  fair?" 

What  wonderful  instinct  guides  little  girls  along  their 
chequered  path?  No  words  could  have  touched  Ronnie  more 
deeply  than  those  two — "play  fair."  He  had  been  playing 


DOLF  39 

games  all  his  life.  A  shamed  flush  broke  over  his  face  and 
spread  to  his  very  throat. 

"My  God,  Dolf,  I  am  a  brute!"  he  exclaimed.  "I'm  not 
fit  to  kiss  your  hand,  let  alone  you.  I  don't  know  what  I  was 
thinking  of.  I  ought  to  have  known — and  you  just  a  kid  earn- 
ing your  own  living  in  London.  Say  you  forgive  me!  I'll  be 
as  good  as  gold  f'r  ever  'n  ever.  I  promise." 

He  took  her  face  between  his  hands  and  gazed  into  her  eyes. 

"Forgive  me?" 

"Ye-es." 

Very  gently  he  put  his  lips  to  hers. 

"You  dear,"  he  murmured. 

Through  all  Dolf's  veins  little  joy-devils  rioted.  She  had 
used  her  power  again  and  won.  First  it  had  maddened  him, 
then  when  the  foreseen  obvious  happened,  it  had  broken  him. 

There  were  no  devils  left  in  Ronnie.  The  whirlwind  of  his 
passion  had  passed,  leaving  a  soft  spring  south  wind  of  boy 
worship.  He  overwhelmed  her  with  a  myriad  little  tendernesses, 
pretty  nothings  of  butterfly  kisses  for  her  eyes  and  framing  her 
face  in  a  setting  of  her  hair  crossed  beneath  her  chin.  It  was 
Ronnie  who  made  tea,  who  packed  up,  who  lifted  her  gently 
back  into  the  sidecar  and  kissed  her  good  night  because  he 
couldn't  later.  They  dined  at  a  little  quiet  restaurant  where 
his  clothes  didn't  matter. 

"It's  been  a  heavenly  day,"  sighed  Ronnie.  "I  love  you. 
When  can  you  meet  me  to-morrow?" 

Dolf,  playing  with  a  glass  of  red  wine,  which  she  didn't  like 
very  much,  but  chose  because  it  looked  so  pretty,  laughed  softly 
and  happily. 

"Do  you  want  me  very  much  to-morrow,  Ronnie?" 

"You  know  I  do." 

His  foot  found  hers  beneath  the  table  and  she  responded 
gently  to  the  pressure. 

"Will  you  take  me  to  tea  somewhere  where  they  have  music?" 

"The  Carlton,"  said  Ronnie,  instantly. 


40  DOLF 

"Not  there.    I  haven't  a  frock  for  the  Carlton." 

"The  Waldorf,  then.  We  can  have  a  table  hidden  in  a  clump 
of  palms.  May  I  call  for  you?" 

"Ye-es."  She  felt  that  a  Bloomsbury  boarding-house  would 
frighten  him  no  longer.  It  was  safe  now.  "And  will  you  take 
me  home,  please?  I'm  getting  so  sleepy." 

She  snuggled  down  happily  in  the  sidecar.  Outside  her  Tal- 
lentyre  Square  caravanserai  he  kissed  her  swiftly.  His  last  im- 
pression was  a  slender  scarlet  figure  waving  a  hand  behind  a 
closing  door.  Ronnie  sighed  gustily.  Then  he  tore  fiercely 
through  the  quiet  streets  and  stayed  the  vague  sick  feeling  of 
new  love  with  two  large  whiskies  and  sodas. 


CHAPTER  V 

IN  the  pitch  dark  of  the  drawing-room  floor  landing,  Dolf 
stumbled  over  a  pair  of  legs.  The  faint  glow  of  a  cigarette 
revealed  the  presence  of  a  male,  judging  from  the  legs,  seated 
on  a  plush  settee  with  which  the  proprietress  suggested  addi- 
tional richness  to  the  squatters  of  that  opulent  level. 

"I  beg  your  parden,"  murmured  a  quiet,  lazy  voice.  "Prop- 
erly speaking,  I  should  be  in  bed  and  asleep.  I  sit  on  this 
piece  of  furniture  occasionally,  simply,  as  it  were,  to  get  my 
money's  worth.  Do  forgive  me." 

Dolf  laughed  softly. 

"I've  just  come  in.  My  room's  one  of  the  attics.  I  s'pose 
you're  Mr.  Senlake  if  you  live  on  this  floor.  I  forgive  you,  if 
there's  anything  to  forgive.  Why  do  you  sit  in  the  dark?" 

"Cos'  it's  after  eleven  o'clock  and  they  put  out  the  lights  at 
eleven.  Where  have  you  been,  fair  lady?  I  like  not  these  late 
wanderings.  You  sound  too  young  and  beautiful  to  risk  them. 
Confess!" 

She  came  to  rest  on  the  arm  of  the  settee  next  to  him;  he 
became  conscious  of  a  faint  odour  of  violets,  Egyptian  ciga- 
rettes, face  powder  and  Girl. 

"You've  been  out  with  a  boy,"  he  accused. 

"Yes,  I  have — the  dearest  boy,  with  a  ripping  sidecar,  and 
we  had  tea  in  the  country  and  dined  in  town." 

"And  he  kissed  you  and  said  he  loved  you,  and  was  chival- 
rous and  knightly  and  you're  going  out  again  to-morrow  and 
every  evening  until  the  crash  comes.  It's  very  young  and 
energetic  of  you." 

"What'll  be  the  crash?"  queried  Dolf,  playing  with  her  gloves. 

"Why  ask?    One  day  he'll  want  more  than  you  care  to  give, 

41 


42  DOLF 

or  else  you'll  give  it,  and  then  he'll  get  fed-up.  Take  an  old 
sinner's  advice — always  keep  a  man  guessing  unless  you  marry 
him." 

"And  if  I  marry  him?" 

His  delayed  answer  came  in  a  tone  unexpectedly  bitter. 

"Oh,  keep  on  keeping  him  guessing.  But  you'll  do  that  of 
your  own  accord.  What's  your  name?" 

"Dolf.    What's  yours?" 

"Guy  Henry  de  Blancheforet  Senlake,  generally  Guy  to  the 
nicest  little  girls.  Now  you  must  go  to  bed.  You're  keeping 
me  up." 

Dolf  laughed  again.  She  was  a  different  Dolf  with  this 
strange  attractive  person — a  frank  unaffected  girl  without  a 
hint  of  pose. 

"Good  night,"  she  murmured,  holding  out  her  hand  in  the 
dark.  He  took  it  and  held  it. 

"Listen,"  he  commanded.  "You  sound  quite  pretty  and  new 
to  this  village.  Don't  run  past  yourself,  even  if  you  do  have 
every  chance." 

"Thank  you  for  the  advice,"  she  laughed.  "If  I  get  bothered 
by  any  man  you  shall  kill  him  for  me.  And  why  did  you  call 
yourself  old?  You  aren't  old?" 

"I  hope,"  he  said  thoughtfully,  "that  thirty  will  seem  nicer 
to  you  than  it  does  to  me.  Night-night,  Dolf,  dear." 

"Night-night,"  she  responded  thoughtfully,  adding,  after  a 
pause,  "Guy!" 

Up  in  her  attic  room  she  smiled  vaguely  as  she  undressed. 

She  had  learnt  a  new  lesson.  Here  was  another  man,  more 
experienced,  more  interesting  than  Ronnie,  with  whom  she 
could  be  candid  because  he  was  out  of  the  hunt.  With  Ronnie 
she  knew  herself  the  quarry  whether  he  did  or  not;  Guy  she 
could  trust  because  some  other  chase  engrossed  him. 

"Evidently  a  man  can't  be  your  friend  and  your  lover  at 
the  same  time.  Wonder  which  is  nicer?"  murmured  Dolf  as 
she  drifted  into  oblivion. 


DOL*  43 

The  weeks  passed  like  a  rainbow  dream  dominated  by  Ron- 
nie. He  monopolised  every  spare  moment  of  her  life.  His  flow- 
ers strewed  her  dressing  table,  his  gold  wristlet  watch  en- 
circled her  left  arm,  his  platinum  pendant  lay  gently  on  her 
breast  beneath  the  prosaic  business  gown  of  every  day.  Almost 
every  night  she  dined  with  him  somewhere  in  the  pink  evening 
gown  that  was  a  birthday  present  from  him — a  tender,  clinging 
thing  that  accentuated  her  fair  slightness  into  an  animate  heart- 
break. 

Netta,  Dolf's  hostess  for  a  week,  exulted  openly. 

"He's  mad  on  you,  dear.  He  told  me  so,  and  anyone 
can  see  it.  Of  course  he'll  marry  you — we  must  make  him. 
You're  pretty  enough  and  clever  enough  to  manage  anybody. 
Only  he'll  have  to  be  wangled  into  it  because  Ronnie's  a  young 
man  who'll  go  on  and  on  as  long  as  he's  happy  and  not  give  a 
damn  for  the  future.  That's  all  right  for  a  man,  but  a  girl 
can't  afford  it." 

"No,"  murmured  Dolf,  taking  one  of  Ronnie's  cigarettes  out 
of  her  mouth  and  putting  one  of  his  chocolates  in.  "But  it's 
lovely  for  a  bit,  Netta.  I'm  awf'ly  happy." 

Netta  stood  brushing  out  her  dark  hair,  staring  at  Dolf 
curled  up  on  the  bed. 

"If  he  only  saw  you  in  that  nfghtie  he'd  never  rest  until 
he'd  got  a  marriage  license  in  his  pocket,"  she  said.  "You're 
the  loveliest  kid  I've  ever  seen,  Dolf.  We're  a  bit  of  a  con- 
trast, you  and  I,  aren't  we?" 

Dolf  looked  up,  her  blue  eyes  faintly  clouded.  She  saw  her- 
self slender  and  virginal,  with  the  subtle  untellable  appeal  of 
innocence  emanating  from  her;  Netta  stood  confessed,  though 
perfect  in  every  line,  radiantly  beautiful,  armed  at  all  points 
against  the  world,  a  girl  who  had  sold  her  reputation  for  a  song, 
golden  though  it  might  be,  and  sung  in  beautiful  surroundings. 

In  her  heart  of  hearts  Netta  waited  for  the  inevitable  change 
of  key  from  major  to  minor,  when  Love's  anthem  should  modu- 
late into  Love's  funeral  march. 


44  DOLF 

"One  just  chooses,"  Dolf  said  finally. 

"One  does,"  echoed  Netta  with  grim  emphasis,  "and  you'll 
choose  marriage.  Now,  look  here;  you'd  better  invite  Ronnie 
here  to  dinner  and  I'll  dine  out.  Let  it  be  the  day  after  to- 
morrow. After  dinner  you'll  look  seedy  and  go  to  bed.  As  a 
great  favour  you'll  let  him  come  in  and  say  good  night  before 
he  goes  and  tuck  you  up.  Arrange  the  scene  for  nine-thirty,  and 
I'll  come  in  just  then  and  assume  you've  fixed  it  up  and  are 
engaged.  That'll  give  him  just  the  shove  in  the  right  direction 
he  needs.  Get  me?" 

Dolf  shook  her  fair  head. 

"I  don't  like  the  idea.     It  seems  like  a  trick,"  she  objected. 

"And  men  never  trick  girls,  do  they?  A  glass  or  so  of  wine 
too  much,  a  little  something  in  the  coffee — 7  know.  My  dear, 
every  girl's  an  outlaw  and  all  men  are  against  her.  Don't  be  a 
little  fool." 

She  sat  on  the  bed  and  put  her  arms  round  Dolf.  "I  don't 
want  to  seem  hard,  but  I  do  know.  And,  anyway,  it  can't  do 
any  harm.  Promise?" 

"Right-ho.    I  promise,"  said  Dolf  after  a  pause. 

The  next  day,  when  Ronnie  met  her  as  usual  after  business, 
she  invited  him  to  Netta's  flat  at  the  back  of  Oxford  Street, 
her  arm  linked  through  Minnie  Harding's.  With  Minnie  Hard- 
ing she  went  home  to  supper  by  special  invitation. 

Minnie  was  good  and  plain  and  lived  in  a  bed-sitting-room 
in  Pimlico.  She  exhibited  the  bright  eternal  courage  and  con- 
tentment with  her  lot  that  are  the  privilege  of  the  good  and 
plain.  No  boy  comforted  her  and  caressed  her  because  none 
desired  her;  it  was  Minnie's  joy  to  reveal  that  she  cared  for 
none  of  these  things,  that  she  had  what  she  wanted  and  wanted 
what  she  had. 

Dolf  roamed  vaguely  round  Minnie's  little  realm,  despising 
inwardly,  with  her  newly-found  in?:stcnce  on  these  things,  the 
lack  of  unguents  and  aids  to  beauty,  the  dull  clothes,  the  scanty 
amenities  of  all  kinds  that  distinguished  Minnie,  who  was  cook- 


DOLF  45 

ing  something  female  and  nasty  on  an  oil  stove.  In  her  travels 
she  came  upon  the  photograph  of  a  man,  bland  and  blase, 
standing  in  a  place  of  honour  and  said  nothing.  Presently  they 
fell  to  on  a  meal  of  sardines,  scone  and  margarine,  tinned 
peaches  and  muddy  coffee.  Later  Minnie  refused  a  cigarette 
and  sat  beaming  all  over  her  shiny  face.  She  was  having  a  great 
time. 

"Minnie,"  exclaimed  Dolf  at  last,  "why  do  you  do  it?  Why 
don't  you  get  a  boy?  Why  d'you  grub  along  with  stuffy  clothes 
arid  oil-stove  teas  when  you  could  be  taken  out  to  dinner  and 
given  frocks  and  things.  Where's  the  attraction?" 

Minnie  shook  her  head  and  smiled.    She  always  smiled. 

"I  have  my  independence,"  she  said  in  her  little  precise 
fashion.  "I  don't  think  a  nice  girl  wants  to  feel  she's  frittered 
away  her  heart  in  empty  flirting  when  Mr.  Right  comes  along. 
She  would  feel  unworthy,"  Minnie  blushed,  "to  be  the  mother 
of  his  children.  I  rather  wish,  Dolf,  I  could  persuade  you  to 
be  a  little  more — serious.  You're  such  a  nice  girl." 

She  glanced  reprovingly  at  Dolf's  smart,  frivolous  clothes, 
cigarette  and  carefully  designed  complexion.  Dolf  sniffed. 

"Unfortunately  this  sort  of  thing  doesn't  attract  Mr.  Right, 
Minnie,  nor  even  Mr.  Wrong.  He  likes  a  smart  girl  to  take  out. 
If  no  one  ever  takes  you  out  you'll  never  be  the  mother  of  his 
children — unless  that's  Mr.  Right  over  there."  She  jerked 
the  cigarette  towards  the  photo  on  the  mantelpiece. 

"That,"  replied  Minnie  primly,  "is  a  very  dear  friend,  whom 
I  once  thought  would  be  my  fairy  prince.  Ours  was  a  very 
beautiful  friendship,  Dolf,  but  it  will  never  be  anything  more. 
Love  is  like  that  sometimes,  and  it's  a  girl's  privilege  to  give.  It 
was  all  very  sweet  and  lovely.  I  could  never  turn  from  the 
memory  of  those  days  to  mere  frivolling." 

"Well,  Minnie,  I  take  men  as  I  find  them.  They're  all 
out  for  what  they  can  get,  and  we  have  to  be  the  same.  You're 
a  juggins,  but  it's  your  affair.  I  don't  s'pose  you  approve  of 


46  DOLF 

me,  but  I'd  rather  be  me  than  you.  At  any  rate,  I  enjoy 
myself." 

Dolf  stifled  a  yawn  and  took  her  leave.  She  walked  away 
from  Pimlico  with  gay,  fastidious  steps,  hugging  the  joy  of  silk 
stockings  and  a  neat  town  suit. 

"Netta's  right.  I'll  play  up  to  Ronnie  for  all  I'm  worth. 
Any  thing's  better  than  being  a  Minnie  Harding,"  she  mur- 
mured. A  great,  gleaming  motor  'bus  thundered  along  and  Dolf 
sprang  on  the  step  as  if  she  fled  from  some  tangible  pursuing 
horrors. 

After  Dolf  had  gone,  Minnie  stood  gazing  long  and  earnestly 
at  the  photo  on  the  mantelpiece.  Then  she  opened  a  drawer 
in  her  dressing-table  and  took  out  a  little  box.  It  contained  a 
wedding  ring  and  this  also  she  considered  with  pathetic  in- 
tensity. 

"  'A  beautiful  friendship  that  will  never  be  anything  more,'  " 
she  quoted  ironically.  "And  Dolf  thinks  she  knows,  and  hurries 
forward,  another  poor  fool,  to  give  herself  to  some  man  who'll 
despise  her." 

She  put  away  the  ring  and  shut  the  drawer. 

"Better  an  oil-stove  tea  and  your  own  soul  than  the  Ritz 
and  a  heartache,"  she  concluded  scornfully.  "I've  tried  both, 
and  I  know  best." 

The  silk  facings  of  Ronnie's  dinner  jacket  gleamed  less  softly 
than  the  white  bare  arms  and  shoulders  of  Dolf  opposite  him. 
There  were  flowers  on  Netta's  tiny  dining-table,  and  red  wine 
in  their  glasses.  The  smoke  of  Dolf's  cigarette  curled  upward 
dreamily  and  her  eyes  seemed  deeper  than  ever.  She  raised 
them  and  smiled  at  him  unfathomably. 

"Do  you  love  me  still,  Ronnie?" 

"Love  you?    My  God!" 

His  voice  shook.  He  stretched  out  his  hand,  took  hers,  and 
laid  his  cheek  against  it  in  absolute  surrender. 

Dolf  pushed  back  the  fair  hair  from  her  brow  and  sighed 
wearily. 


DOLF  47 

"Do  you  mind  if  I'm  a  sleepy  girl  and  go  to  bed  early?  I'm 
rather  tired  to-night.  I'd  have  put  off  this  joy-evening  only  I 
thought  p'raps  you'd  be  disappointed.  If  you'll  promise  to  be 
very  good,  you  may  brush  my  hair  for  me,  if  you  like;  will 
you?" 

The  incipient  passion  faded  from  Ronnie's  eyes.  At  once 
he  was  all  protecting  and  careful,  as  she  had  calculated.  The 
risks  of  the  game  disappeared. 

"  'Course  I  will,  darling.  Who  wouldn't  be  good  to  you. 
Will  you  come  back  when  you're  ready?" 

Dolf  wandered  away  on  lagging  feet.  In  Netta's  bedroom 
she  smiled  at  her  reflection,  dusted  her  face  and  neck  with  a 
powder-puff  and  undressed  slowly.  It  would  be  well  to  keep 
him  waiting.  She  crept  lovingly  into  a  silk,  beribboned  night- 
gown of  Netta's,  put  on  over  it  a  long  pink  silk  dress-wrap  fas- 
tened high  at  the  throat,  picked  up  a  brush  and  comb,  and  saun- 
tered back.  Ronnie  stood  in  speechless  rapture  at  the  sight 
of  the  long  fair  hair  and  tiny  slippered  feet. 

"You  look  about  fifteen,"  he  murmured.  "Do  I  brush  it 
like  this?  Am  I  hurting?  It  seems  an  awful  stiff  brush  for  a 
little  girl's  head." 

When  she  had  plaited  the  little  girl's  hair  in  two  long  plaits 
and  tied  them  with  pink  bows,  she  glanced  up. 

"I'm  ready.  Will  you  tuck  me  up  and  say  good  night?"  She 
glanced  at  the  clock.  It  pointed  exactly  to  9.25. 

Ronnie  followed  her.  He  experienced  that  feeling  of  delicious 
awe  at  seeing  for  the  first  time  a  young  girl's  bedroom.  Typi- 
cally enough,  he  discounted  Netta  entirely.  Slowly  Dolf  slid 
out  of  the  dressing-wrap. 

"Turn  away  and  shut  your  eyes  a  moment,"  she  commanded. 
Ronnie  turned.  He  heard  a  quick  scuffle  behind  him.  A  soft 
voice  said:  "Now  you  may  look." 

He  stood.  He  saw  her  sitting  up  in  bed  with  only  her 
bare  arms  and  shoulders  visible.  She  looked  so  good  and  pure 
and  little  he  could  almost  have  wept.  Something  in  his  eyes 


48  DOLF 

almost  made  Dolf  ashamed  to  be  loved  so  much,  for  a  faint 
pink  stole  into  her  cheeks.  She  held  up  her  mouth  innocently  as 
a  child. 

"Good  night,  Ronnie." 

He  knelt  on  the  edge  of  the  bed  and  kissed  her  very  gently. 
Her  arms  stole  around  his  neck. 

"You  are  a  dear  to  me,"  she  whispered. 

"Who  wouldn't  be?" 

Breaking  on  his  words  came  the  click  of  the  hall  door.  Netta 
stepped  across  the  brief  hall  humming  something  about  coming 
back  to  the  shack,  and  entered  her  bedroom  without  knocking. 
She  found  Ronnie  standing  by  the  bed,  a  little  confused,  a  little 
defiant. 

"My  godfathers  and  godmothers "  she  began,  and  then 

revelation  seemed  to  illumine  her  mind.  "I  s'pose  you've  fixed 
it  up  at  last  then?  But  you  really  can't  begin  your  honeymoon 
at  once,  in  my  flat,  young  man.  Kindly  pull  yourself  together 
just  a  little." 

Ronnie  almost  staggered.  Had  he  crossed  the  Rubicon?  Was 
it  irrevocable?  Must  he?  Then  his  eyes  returned  to  Dolf, 
looking  like  a  snowflake  in  the  first  flush  of  dawn. 

"We  haven't,  but  it's  not  my  fault.  Will  you,  Dolf,  darling? 
Could  you?  Do  you  like  me  enough?" 

"What  for,  Ronnie?" 

"To  marry  me,"  ended  Ronnie,  getting  out  the  horrid  word 
like  a  man. 

Dolf  lowered  her  eyelids  as  a  regiment  lowers  its  colours  to 
a  King. 

"If  you  really  want  me  to." 

Ronnie  walked  all  the  way  home  thinking  mainly  of  his  aris- 
tocratic mother,  his  allowance,  their  many  friends.  Then  the 
flaming  optimism  of  youth  caught  and  overwhelmed  him. 

"She's  a  darling!  I  love  her.  I  don't  care  a  damn!"  he  ex- 
claimed. Vaguely,  however,  he  wished  he  did  not  have  to  tell 
himself  so. 


DOLF  49 

Dolf,  returning  Bloomsburywards  after  her  visit  to  Netta, 
encountered  Senlake  sitting  on  the  plush  settee,  smoking  a  pen- 
sive cigarette. 

"Salaam,"  he  observed  solemnly.  "Tarry  awhile,  and  tell  me 
the  news.  You  look  as  if  something  had  happened." 

"I'm  engaged,"  she  explained,  resting  as  usual  on  the  arm 
of  the  settee.  "It's  rather  exciting,  isn't  it?" 

"To  whom?  The  young  man  of  the  motorcycle?  What's 
his  name?" 

"Ronnie  Mainwaring.  His  mother's  Mrs.  Bertie  Mainwar- 
ing,  and  they  live  in  Park  Street." 

"I  congratulate  you,"  murmured  Senlake  thoughtfully.  "I 
seem  to  know  the  name.  Think  you'll  both  be  happy?" 

"Why  not?" 

"Ah!  There  you  have  me.  Now  I  envy  him  your  youth 
and  beauty.  Look  here,  to-morrow's  Sunday.  Come  for  a 
walk  after  breakfast  and  tell  me  all  about  it  unless  you're 
going  out  with  him.  Will  you?" 

She  nodded. 

"Ronnie  can't  see  me  till  tea-time.  I'd  like  to.  Thanks. 
Cheerio!" 

"Why  should  I  bother?"  murmured  Senlake  after  she  had 
gone.  "Let  her  find  out  for  herself  and  suffer."  He  lit  a  ciga- 
rette fretfully.  "And  yet  it's  rotten,  to  make  a  kid  pay  for 
the  wickedness  of  a  woman  she  doesn't  even  know.  She  isn't 
like  my  wife,  either;  she  looks  as  if  she'd  be  square  with  a 
man." 

He  wandered  out  to  a  telephone  box  and  looked  up  the  Main- 
warings'  number. 

"Is  Mr.  Mainwaring  in?  Who  are  you?  His  servant?  This 
is — er — ah — Sir  Vincent  Coventry  speaking.  No,  I  can't  ring 
up  again,  I'm  dining  out.  Where  will  Mr.  Mainwaring  be  to- 
morrow morning  about  eleven?  I  see — riding  in  the  park  with 
his  cousin,  Lady  Victoria  Kerr.  Thank  you.  I  shall  probably 
see  him  there.  No,  no  message.  Good-bye." 


50  DOLF 

"The  enemy  seems  delivered  into  my  hands,"  murmured  Sen- 
lake,  strolling  back  to  his  boarding-house.  In  the  morning 
he  said,  "Let's  go  and  see  life  in  the  park." 

Sitting  next  to  Dolf  in  her  Sunday  best  on  a  green  chair  in 
the  second  rank  while  a  Sabbath  sun  bathed  the  Row  in  gold, 
he  conversed  with  a  honeyed  tongue. 

"It's  a  good  match  for  you,  Dolf,  my  friend.  I  congratu- 
late you.  The  Mainwarings  are  bloated  aristocrats.  Ronnie's 
s'posed  to  be  marrying  Lady  Victoria  Kerr.  What  does  his 
mother  say?" 

"Don't  know.    That's  his  affair." 

"How  about  the  girl.    Think  it's  fair  on  her?" 

"She  had  a  better  chance  than  me.    Let  her  take  it." 

Senlake  laughed. 

"I  agree.    And  you  love  Ronnie?" 

«  'Course  I  do." 

"Think  you're  doing  him  a  good  turn?" 

"Why  are  you  so  down  on  my  marrying  him?"  she  asked 
bluntly.  "You  don't  want  me  to  marry  you" 

"Hardly,  dear  thing.  I  have  a  wife  already."  He  saw  her 
surprise.  "Ah,  you  wonder  why  I  live  alone,  and  in  Tallentyre 
Square.  But  that's  not  a  pleasant  story,  so  let's  leave  it." 

"I'm  sorry,"  she  said  after  a  pause.  "Was  she  beastly  to 
you?" 

"She  has  other  interests,  or  lovers,  or  whatever  you  like  to 
call  them." 

"But  you  still  care  for  her,  don't  you?    Men  always  do." 

He  laughed  bitterly. 

"I  s'pose  so,  and  she  knows  it.  Still  I  had  some  pride — 
enough  to  leave  her,  anyhow.  Some  day  I  shall  pluck  up 
enough  courage  to  be  free  altogether." 

"You  belong  to  this  life  here,"  asserted  Dolf,  indicating  the 
beautifully  dressed  women  and  clean-cut  men  strolling  past. 
"And  you've  spent  all  you  have  on  her  and  she  gives  you  noth- 
ing in  return.  Oh,  she  must  be  horribly  wicked." 


DOLF  51 

He  shook  his  head  gently. 

"She's  my  wife  at  present  anyway,  so  let's  leave  it  at  that. 
I  don't  respect  myself  particularly  and  some  day  I  may  alter. 
Again,  I  mayn't.  What  difference  does  it  make?" 

He  kept  his  eyes  on  the  riders,  watching  for  the  pair  he  hoped 
would  not  fail  him.  Meanwhile  Dolf,  though  she  was  touched 
by  his  loneliness,  had  more  concern  for  her  own  affairs. 

"But,  Guy,  I'd  not  be  that  sort  of  a  wife,  so  I  don't  see 
why » 

He  interrupted  her.  His  eyes,  constantly  alert,  had  perceived 
a  couple  of  riders  enter  by  the  Hyde  Park  Corner  gate. 

"Are  you  still  going  to  marry  Ronnie?"  he  asked  softly. 

"Yes!" 

"But  look!" 

She  looked.  She  saw  Ronnie  and  a  girl  go  past  at  a  walk, 
both  perfectly  mounted,  perfectly  turned  out.  The  girl  riding 
astride  in  immaculate  kit  was  thoroughbred  from  boot  to  hat. 
She  rode  as  one  rides  who  had  ridden  from  babyhood.  Dolf 
saw  a  new  Ronnie,  a  stranger  to  her — the  Ronnie  of  Park  Street 
and  all  it  implies.  The  riders  passed  on  with  a  jingle  of  bit  and 
stirrup-iron,  engrossed  in  one  another.  Dolf  turned  to  Sen- 
lake  with  pale  face  and  blazing  eyes. 

"I  hate  you!"  she  stormed.  "But  for  you  I'd  have  married 
him  and  been  happy — for  a  time,  anyway.  Ob,  how  I  loathe 
you!" 

"But  Ronnie  wouldn't  be  happy.  You've  got  on  the  wrong 
hat  and  you're  showing  too  much  stocking.  They  notice  these 
things  in  Park  Street,"  murmured  Senlake,  who  knew  when 
cruelty  is  kindness. 

"Let  me  think.  Wait  here  while  I  make  up  my  mind,"  she 
insisted,  and  he  acquiesced. 

Behind  them  stood  a  cluster  of  trees.  Thither  Dolf  took  her 
problem  and  the  pain  at  her  heart.  The  trees  grew  but  fifty 
yards  away,  yet  Senlake's  case  emptied  itself  completely  as  he 
lit  one  cigarette  after  another  and  stared  idly  at  the  passing 


52  DOLF 

throng.  He  had  this  much  pity — he  would  not  intrude  even 
by  so  much  as  a  glance  on  the  bitterness  of  her  struggle. 

At  last,  aware  of  a  movement  at  his  side,  he  looked  up  and 
saw  her,  white- faced  and  scornful,  looking  down  at  him  in  fury. 

"You've  won — but  I  never  want  to  speak  to  you  again,"  she 
said  coldly,  and  was  turning  away  when  Senlake's  touch  de« 
tained  her. 

Her  gaze  went  from  his  pale  face  to  a  cantering  couple  on 
whom  he  had  swiftly  turned  his  back,  a  superb  auburn-haired 
woman  whose  delicacy  of  colouring  almost  surpassed  Dolf's 
own,  though  she  must  have  been  nearly  thirty,  and  with  her  a 
tall  man,  insolent-eyed,  handsome. 

"Your  wife!"  Dolf  gasped  with  prophetic  insight. 

Senlake  nodded.    On  his  lips  hovered  a  twisted  smile. 

"And  you  let  me  know  because ?" 

"Because  now  we're  like  two  street  beggars,  who,  in  an  idle 
moment,  show  each  other  their  empty  pockets." 

He  left  her  to  her  pain,  going  away  to  be  alone  with  his. 
And  she  realised  slowly  what  it  had  cost  him  to  bring  her  here. 

Dolf  chose  as  a  scene  for  her  renunciation  the  sitting-room 
which  boarders  might  hire  wherein  to  entertain  friends.  To 
Ronnie  she  knew  it  would  be  a  dreadful  place,  and  the  dinner 
a  vile  dinner.  She  took  care  her  face  should  be  over-made-up, 
her  skirt  too  short,  her  blouse  too  decollete,  and  her  jewellery 
too  obviously  false.  Her  role  was  the  common  little  girl  and 
she  played  it  admirably. 

She  saw  with  bitter  amusement  Ronnie's  thinly  disguised  hor- 
ror at  the  surroundings.  Everything  she  could  do  that  jarred 
on  his  nerves  she  did.  Finally,  sending  a  cloud  of  cigarette 
smoke  ceilingwards,  she  asked: 

"Do  you  still  love  me,  Ronnie?" 

"Of  course,"  he  answered  with  an  effort. 

"Better  than  the  girl  you  were  riding  with  yesterday  in  the 
Park?" 

Ronnie  flushed. 


DOLF  53 

"We  can  leave  her  out  of  it.  She  hardly  comes  into  the 
question." 

"No,"  retorted  Dolf.  "You  can  leave  me  out  of  it.  She 
comes  into  it  more  than  I  do." 

"What  d'you  mean?" 

Dolf  got  up,  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  table  and  swung  a  far 
too  obvious  leg.  , 

"I  mean  this.  As  far  as  you're  concerned  I'm  a  joy-girl. 
We've  done  nothing  wrong,  but  that's  your  attitude.  You'd 
never  have  asked  me  to  marry  you,  only  Netta  made  you.  Your 
people'll  fight  me  like  cats,  and  if  we  were  married  they'd  ignore 
me,  and  you,  too,  as  much  as  they  could.  That's  not  good 
enough  for  me.  You're  not  the  only  man  in  the  world.  I'm 
only  seventeen.  I  don't  love  you,  and  I  don't  want  you  at 
that  price.  See?" 

She  took  off  a  diamond  ring  and  gave  it  to  him. 

"If  you  could  deny  all  this,  I'd  listen,  but  you  can't,  so  don't 
try.  Let's  say  good-bye  and  end  it." 

Ronnie  got  up  and  stood  looking  at  her.  His  lips  framed 
noble  and  contradictory  words,  but  the  leaping  of  his  heart  in 
sheer  relief  choked  him.  A  picture  formed  itself  in  his  mind 
— the  picture  of  the  girl  before  him  meeting  his  mother,  for  the 
fitting  of  whose  gowns,  in  the  ordinary  way,  she  held  pins. 

"If  that's  how  you  feel,"  he  said,  and  strove  to  look  injured, 
"why,  good-bye.  If  you  ever  need  a  friend  .  .  ." 

"I  doubt  it,"  she  answered  very  clearly  and  distantly.  "This 
is  good-bye,  Ronnie.  Don't  make  any  mistake  about  it." 

Alone  in  her  attic  bedroom,  Dolf  brooded  forlornly  on  life  and 
its  bitterness  till  her  eyes  drowned  themselves  in  a  rush 
of  tears.  She  went  slowly  to  the  window  and  gazed  up  at  the 
stars  for  comfort,  as  in  her  bad  moments  she  always  did.  They 
seemed  to  her  so  remote,  impartial,  compassionate. 

Far  below  the  street  door  slammed.  Looking  down  she  be- 
held Senlake,  in  Harris  tweed,  an  ash  stick  in  his  hand,  stroll 
away  none  knew  whither. 


54  DOLF 

Somehow  the  sight  comforted  Dolf.  She  was  not  alone  in 
misfortune;  there  went  another  down  and  out,  worse  off  than 
herself.  He  was  married,  broken,  a  failure;  she  had  fallen 
merely  to  rise  again,  free  as  air  with  none  to  gainsay  her. 

Dolf  heaved  a  great  sigh  over  the  mystery  and  adventure  of 
life.  Then  she  crawled  into  bed  and  slept,  being  very  weary. 


CHAPTER  VI 

YET  when  days,  a  week  passed  and  she  never  encountered  Sen- 
lake  she  began  to  wonder  where  he  was.  Now  that  she  thought 
of  it  there  had  been  finality  in  the  sound  of  that  slammed  door. 
But  if  he  had  gone  her  aunt  would  have  told  her. 

That  was  exactly  what  her  aunt  did  tell  her  almost  imme- 
diately. Senlake  had  called,  paid  his  rent  in  full,  and  taken 
away  his  things,  leaving  no  address. 

"How  did  he  look?"  she  asked. 

Mrs.  Bainbridge  cast  back  into  a  fertile  memory. 

"Sort  of  cheered  up,  I'd  say — new  suit — not  that  he  'asn't 
always  been  a  credit  to  my  place,  I'll  say  that  for  him,  and  a 
very  'andsome  present  'e  left,  too.  But  his  sort  always  does 
what's  right  and  proper  by  a  widow  lady.  A  very  nice  gentle- 
man. But  there,  'e's  gone  and  I  suppose  that's  the  last  of  him. 
You  should  'ave  got  to  know  'im  better,  my  dearie;  even  if 
he  'adn't  'ad  much  money  to  spend  on  you,  'e  might  'ave  done 
you  a  friendly  turn  now  and  then." 

"Yes,"  murmured  Dolf  softly.  Then  she  threw  up  her  head. 
"But  as  you  say,  he's  gone  and  probably  that's  the  last  of  him." 
And  with  a  shrug  that  hid  wounded  pride,  a  vague  regret,  she 
left  the  eloquent  atmosphere  of  her  aunt.  "I  must  forget  him," 
she  told  herself.  "It  oughtn't  to  be  hard — in  London." 

As  long  as  a  girl  is  pretty  and  intelligent  adventure  always 
beckons.  It  beckoned  now  through  the  Boy  in  Grey. 

Whether  a  week  or  a  thousand  ages  had  passed  since  she  first 
met  him,  Dolf  neither  knew  nor  cared.  She  saw  him  come 
swinging  up  the  same  street  and  at  once  she  remembered  that 
evening  when  he  had  all  but  stopped  in  her  path,  and  she, 
absorbed  with  Ronnie,  had  gone  on  and  forgotten. 

55 


56  DOLF 

But  the  boy  had  not  forgotten  this  girl  with  the  eyes  like 
violets.  And  now  as  they  approached  each  other,  he  so  eagerly, 
she  with  smiling  recognition,  the  ineffable  call  went  out  from 
him  to  her  and  was  answered,  so  that  if  he  had  walked  up  to 
her  and  kissed  her  she  would  have  felt  neither  surprise  nor 
anger. 

After  that,  inevitably  each  night  and  morning  they  looked  for 
each  other;  inevitably  sooner  or  later  the  complete  expression 
of  a  look  would  pass  into  the  incomplete  expression  of  words 
and  they  would  begin  a  new  friendship  not  quite  so  wonder- 
ful yet  very  dear.  In  perfect  faith  Dolf  waited. 

The  Boy  in  Grey  halted  at  the  flower-seller's  corner  and 
bought  a  great  bunch  of  daffodils.  Then  he  moved  away,  and 
as  Dolf  came  up  raised  his  hat  and  smiled  into  her  eyes.  He 
held  out  the  flowers,  flushing  from  an  overwhelming  mixture 
of  pride,  shyness,  determination  and  sheer  youth. 

"Aren't  they  simply  darling?"  he  said,  almost  reverently. 
"Won't  you  please  keep  them  for  me  because  it's  spring  and 
they're  rather  like  you,  and  I  want  you  to  so  very  much?" 

She  stood  there  with  his  flowers  in  her  arms,  her  hair  th«. 
colour  of  the  soft  petals,  herself  like  one  of  them  swayed  by  a 
south  wind. 

"Thank  you,  awfully,"  she  murmured.  "I  love  them,  ano, 
it's  very  dear  of  you.  But  why  should  you  buy  me  flower? 
when  I'm  an  absolute  stranger?" 

He  stood  looking  at  her  as  if  he  would  never  let  her  go,  and 
the  worship  deepened  in  his  eyes. 

"  'And  since,  till  girls  go  maying, 

You  find  the  primrose  still, 

And  find  the  wind-flower  playing 

With  every  wind  at  will, 

But  not  the  daffodil, 
"  'Take  baskets  now,  and  sally 

Upon  the  spring's  array, 

And  bear  from  hill  and  valley 

The  daffodil  away, 

That  dies  on  Easter  Day,' " 

he  quoted  softly. 


DOLF  57 

The  tired  sun  dipped  below  the  horizon,  but  another  more 
arrogant  gold  broke  over  the  grey  street  as  they  turned  away 
together. 

In  early  summer  the  Park  is  very  heavenly  for  young 
lovers,  so  Dolf  and  the  Boy  in  Grey  sat  there  on  a  green  gar- 
den seat,  which  is  free,  while  green  chairs  cost  twopence  each. 
Through  the  mercy  of  Providence  they  had  the  seat  to  them- 
selves. 

All  the  trees  were  shyly  putting  on  their  new  dress  of  green, 
the  young  grass  pushed  up  lustily  at  their  feet,  and  the  smoky 
haze  of  twilight  hung  in  the  air  like  fairy  mist. 

The  boy  stroked  the  fingers  of  Dolf's  left  hand  with  that 
worshipful  reverence  that  only  comes  once  in  life,  if  at  all,  and 
that  very  early. 

"Isn't  it  wonderful?"  he  said  softly,  with  an  adoring  lilt  in 
his  voice.  "And  I  don't  even  know  your  name  yet.  Tell  me, 
dear,  please." 

"Dolf— Dolf  Farmer." 

"Dolf!"  he  muttered  slowly  as  though  it  were  the  one  per- 
fect name  in  the  world.  "Mine's  Gerald  Heritage.  Do  you 
like  me,  Dolf — even  if  it's  only  a  little?  Do  you  mind  my 
asking?  Don't  think  me  a  fool,  but  it's  frightfully  important 
to  me.  Honestly,  I  think  I  should  die  if  you  didn't." 

She  looked  at  him  smiling,  half-maternal,  taking  in  the  broad 
brow,  sensitive  mouth  and  dark  hair  with  a  suggestion  of  curl 
in  it.  He  seemed  to  her,  who  had  known  other  men,  a  sweet, 
adorable  child,  something  not  quite  of  this  world.  She  knew 
so  well  that  men  are  not  over-likely  to  die  of  love. 

"I  do  like  you  rather,  Gerald  dear.  You're  awf'ly  nice  to 
me.  I  love  being  taken  great  care  of." 

His  voice  deepened,  and  his  hand  clasped  hers  more  firmly. 

"Men  are  such  brutes  as  a  rule.  Their  love's  such  a  low 
thing.  Most  of  us  are  little  better  than  animals.  Look  at  all 
these  unfortunate  girls  one  sees  about  London — every  one  is 


58  DOLF 

someone's  daughter  or  sister,  and  it's  men  who've  made  them 
what  they  are.  One  feels  ashamed  to  be  a  man." 

"But  you  aren't  like  those  men,  Gerald,"  she  said  gently. 
He  was  so  young,  so  unaware  of  his  passions,  she  hardly  knew 
how  to  reply.  "I  know  you'd  never  be  unkind  to  any  girl — 
you're  much  too  decent.  I  feel  frightfully  safe  and  looked-after 
with  you." 

He  smiled  at  her  with  a  sort  of  austere  purity  that  almost 
made  her  afraid  for  him. 

"I  love  you,  Dolf,"  he  murmured,  his  young  voice  quivering 
with  exaltation.  "I'm  not  fit  for  even  your  little  feet  to  rest 
on,  but  I'll  be  very,  very  good  to  you.  I  wouldn't  so  much 
as  kiss  you — it  would  be  sacrilege;  and,  besides,  I  don't  want 
anything  from  you.  I  want  just  to  give  up  things  for  you,  to 
cut  out  all  the  selfish  side  and  simply  love  you  as  a  girl  like  you 
ought  to  be  loved.  You'd  rather  it  were  like  that,  wouldn't 
you?" 

"I'd  like  you  to  like  me  just  as  nicely  as  you  know  how," 
she  answered  with  the  tactful  instinct  inherited  from  genera- 
tions of  women  before  her.  "One  always  wants  the  best  there 
is  in  a  man.  ^ell  me  about  yourself,  won't  you?  What  do 
you  do  all  day?  I  only  know  you  go  out  in  the  morning  and 
come  back  the  same  time  as  I  do." 

"I'm  a  journalist,"  he  said  proudly.  "We've  got  the  finest 
paper  in  London — The  Eclectic  Weekly.  It  isn't  popular,  but 
it  does  run  to  ideals.  Jefferson  runs  it — A.  B.  Jefferson,  you 
know,  the  man  who  wrote  Byways  in  Babylon  and  Lyrics  of 
Lost  Soids.  He's  the  greatest  man  in  England.  I'm  only  the 
sub-editor,  but  I  get  three  pounds  a  week,  and  it's  an  inspira- 
tion to  work  under  a  fellow  like  Jefferson.  I  wouldn't  change 
with  the  Editor  of  the  Times." 

Dolf  gazed  at  him  in  sheer  awe.  She  had  never  heard  of 
Mr.  Jefferson,  nor  The  Eclectic  Weekly,  let  alone  that  genius' 
more  personal  works.  She  thought  Henry  Ainley  the  greatest 
man  in  England,  and  even  the  Times  was  to  her  only  a  legend. 


DOLF  59 

The  last  time  a  man-pal  of  Netta's  took  her  out  to  dinner  they 
had  had  a  table  at  the  Savoy  and  the  evening's  entertainment 
would  have  left  very  little  out  of  a  fortnight's  salary  for  Gerald. 

"I  work  at  Holbridge  and  Sellingbourne's,  in  the  gown  de- 
partment," she  explained  a  little  nervously.  "I  get  two  pounds 
ten  a  week — nothing  like  so  much  as  you — but  I've  an  awfully 
decent  girl  pal,  Netta  Blatchley,  who  asks  me  to  her  flat  some- 
times, and  I've  met  one  or  two  rather  jolly  men  there." 

"And  I  s'pose  the  shop-walker  tries  to  flirt  with  you,  you  poor 
little  thing." 

Dolf  fought  down  a  laugh. 

"Oh,  no,  the  head  of  our  department's  a  woman,  and  Netta 
takes  care  of  me,  and  she's  very  wise.  She  introduced  me  to 
Ralph  because  he's  a  hardened  sinner,  and  she  says  girls  are 
always  safer  with  them.  He  gave  me  a  topping  dinner  last 
week." 

She  glanced  up  and  caught  the  look  of  horror  on  Gerald's 
young  face. 

"But  of  course  I  don't  love  him,"  she  added  hastily,  "and 
he's  very  old.  He  must  be  nearly  fifty." 

"Poor  little  Dolf!  Fancy  being  the  guest  of  an  old  rouS 
of  fifty,"  he  exclaimed  compassionately.  "Thank  God  I've 
found  you  in  time.  You  know  so  little  of  the  world;  I'll  lend 
you  Byways  in  Babylon — the  copy  Jefferson  gave  me  himself, 
autographed.  It's  hardly  the  thing  I'd  like  you  to  read — one 
always  longs  to  keep  the  ugly  side  of  life  from  a  girl — but 
you're  so  alone  that  it  wouldn't  be  fair  not  to  warn  you.  Promise 
me  you'll  never  go  out  with  that  man  again." 

"I'd  rather  go  out  with  you,  Gerald,"  she  replied  evasively. 

"Well,  you're  dining  with  me  to-night.  Shall  we  wander 
along  now?  I'll  take  you  to  Giulio's  if  you'd  like  that.  One 
gets  a  fairly  decent  meal  there." 

Giulio's  is  in  Soho,  and  he  caters  for  that  large  class  of  people 
who  like  a  five-course  dinner  for  three  and  sixpence.  In  the 
stuffy  little  room,  Dolf  consumed  watery  soup,  macaroni,  a 


60  DOLF 

mysterious  entree,  an  egg-powder  sweet,  and  rather  demoral- 
ised-looking  fruit,  accompanied  by  thin  red  wine.  But  youth 
triumphs  over  anything,  and  youth  was  looking  at  her  across 
the  tiny  table  with  proud,  adoring  eyes.  Gerald  woke  in  her 
the  dormant  mother  instinct,  and  dessert  might  have  been  the 
ineffable  fruits  of  Paradise.  She  had  quite  forgotten  Ralph 
and  the  Savoy,  and  Gerald  had  never  known  that  excellent 
restaurant. 

On  the  doorstep  of  her  boarding-house  they  paused  to  say 
good  night.  It  was  a  spot  haunted  by  the  ghosts  of  many 
kisses,  of  which  Dolf  had  had  her  share.  But  Gerald,  baring 
his  exalted  head,  merely  took  her  hand  in  his  and  pressed  it  in 
a  reverential  clasp. 

"Good  night,  Dolf,  darling,  you've  made  me  so  happy.  Sleep 
well,  and  God  bless  you,"  he  murmured. 

As  she  brushed  her  fair  hair  Dolf  brooded  over  her  conquest. 
In  a  sense  he  annoyed  her,  for  he  was  so  good  he  almost  made 
her  feel  wicked  and  she  knew  she  was  not.  Finally  the  magnifi- 
cence of  Youth  triumphed  over  this  also. 

"He's  awfully  soft,  but  he  means  well.  And  he's  so  good- 
looking.  I  like  him,"  she  told  herself  defiantly,  and  so  fell 
asleep. 

On  Sunday  night  by  special  invitation  Dolf  found  herself  in 
the  scented,  chintzy  and  pretentious  sitting-room  of  Netta's 
little  flat  in  High  Street,  Marylepad.  Netta  merely  nodded 
from  the  hearth  rug  where  she  sat  on  a  nightmare-hued  pouffe, 
deep  in  conversation  with  something  that  could  only  have  been 
an  actor.  A  big,  ugly  man  of  forty-seven,  with  a  square,  pleas- 
ant face,  whose  thickset  body  looked  as  permanent  as  the  ever- 
lasting hills,  got  up  as  she  came  in  and  smiled. 

"Now  I'm  happy,"  he  said  convincingly.  "Sit  down  and  tell 
me  about  it.  I've  an  idea  you've  been  kissed  and  you're  cer- 
tainly in  love  or  trying  to  be.  Have  a  cigarette.  There's  some 
so-called  coffee,  too,  if  you  want  it.  I  have  to  do  the  honours 
because  Netta's  away  off  with  Cyril  over  there.  They  live  in 


DOLF  61 

another  world  from  common  people  like  me,  but  you're  com- 
paratively human." 

Dolf  chose  a  cigarette  out  of  his  gold  case  and  leaned  to- 
wards the  match  he  held  for  her. 

"Hullo,  Ralph!"  she  answered,  and  sighed  the  comfortable 
sigh  of  a  girl  provided  with  a  completely  wise,  wicked,  reliable 
man.  "You  look  very  pleased  with  life.  What  makes  you  say 
I'm  in  love?" 

Ralph  Jenings  lay  back  in  a  wicker  chair  that  looked  foolishly 
inadequate. 

"Your  eyes,  dearie.  Sick  dogs,  children  with  half  a  box  of 
sweets  left  when  another  one  would  make  them  ill,  and  women 
in  love  all  look  the  same.  It's  a  disease,  but  you'll  get  over 
it.  Tell  me  about  him,  keeping  the  adjectives  as  low  as  pos- 
sible." 

"Well,"  she  began,  curling  up  on  one  of  those  synthetic  divans 
beloved  of  bachelor  girls,  all  made  by  kindness,  a  hammer  and 
nails,  and  several  packing  cases,  "he's  very  young  and  fright- 
fully good-looking.  He  doesn't  know  anything  about  women, 
he  puts  them  on  a  pedestal  and  worships  them,  and  he'll  never 
kiss  me  because  I'm  too  sacred.  It's  wonderful  to  be  loved 
like  that,  isn't  it?" 

"Ah!"  said  Jenings,  and  sighed  in  utter  satisfaction.  "Really 
it  couldn't  be  better  from  my  point  of  view.  I  was  afraid  you'd 
soon  be  telling  your  old  friend  me  to  go  to  the  devil.  As  it  is, 
a  fortnight,  maybe  a  week,  will  see  Mr.  Boy  either  in  the 
river  or  taking  to  drink,  and  you  and  I  will  be  dining  some- 
where to  celebrate  over  his  remains.  Who  is  the  infant?" 

"He's  Gerald  Heritage,  and  he  sub-edits  The  EC — Eclectic 
Weekly,  one  of  the  greatest  papers  in  England." 

"I  don't  think,"  observed  Jenings  in  sublime  scorn.  "Cir- 
culation about  fifteen  hundred  copies  a  week.  Read  by  boys 
and  near- women  in  garden  suburbs.  Run  at  a  loss  on  money 
put  up  by  duck-witted  old  maids  who  could  never  attract  a 
man  and  don't  care  for  religion.  Some  rag! " 


62  DOLF 

"But  Gerald  says  he  wouldn't  change  with  the  editor  of  the 
Times.  The  paper  has  ideals,  and  it's  edited  by  the  greatest 
man  in  England,  a  Mr.  A.  B.  Jefferson." 

"I  never  heard  of  him.    That  ends  Mr.  A.  B.  Jefferson." 

"Why?" 

Ralph  Jennings  turned  and  looked  at  her  with  the  sort  of 
look  seen  on  the  face  of  a  one-ton  bomb  before  it  explodes. 

"I  own  twelve  London  and  provincial  dailies  read  by  fifteen 
million  people  every  day,  and  I've  never  heard  of  him.  There- 
fore, he's  nothing  on  a  plate,  nothing  with  a  capital  N.  He's 
just  space  with  a  rail  round  it  to  make  it  look  emptier  than  if 
the  rail  wasn't  there.  See?" 

"But  it's  the  ideals  that  Gerald  says " 

"Damn  his  ideals!  I  know  'em!  He  has  macaroni  for 
breakfast  because  Charlotte  Bronte  did,  and  a  quilt  on  his 
bed  exactly  the  same  size  as  Mrs.  Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning's. 
He  thinks  Kipling's  vulgar  and  has  a  lot  of  pretty  little  calf- 
bound  poetry  books  written  by  men  who  couldn't  look  a  steak 
and  a  pint  of  beer  in  the  face  without  feeling  faint.  /  had 
ideals  when  I  was  his  age.  I  was  editor,  ad-canvasser,  leader- 
writer  and  helping  hand  at  the  printer's  of  a  little  local  paper. 
Our  leading  features  were  ploughing  matches  and  market  day. 

"My  ideal  was  Henry  Dobbs.  Henry  Dobbs  owned  a  Sun- 
day paper  you  never  heard  of,  read  by  every  working-man 
in  the  country  in  bed  on  Sunday  morning.  Henry  ran  it  on  the 
most  artisically  done  crime  ever  written,  the  racing  page  and 
the  women's  page.  He  never  tipped  a  winner  in  his  life,  but  he 
got  away  with  it  so  well  that  his  public  swore  by  him  and  sim- 
ply blamed  the  horses  for  losing.  He  did  the  women's  page 
himself  because  he  understood  women  better  than  any  woman 
— used  to  tell  'em  how  to  feed  babies,  and  make  a  chemise  out 
of  last  year's  curtains.  Pity  he  died.  And  my  ideal  has  got 
me  where  I  am,  but  Gerald's  won't  carry  him  further  than  eat- 
ing squirrel  food  in  an  almshouse.  Go  on!  Tell  me  some 
more." 


DOLF  63 

"Did  Charlotte  Bronte  eat  macaroni  for  breakfast?"  mused 
Dolf,  staring  through  a  haze  of  smoke  into  nothing. 

"How  do  I  know?  I  pay  Cambridge  graduates  five  or  six 
pounds  a  week  to  tell  the  public  these  things.  What  made  you 
take  to  this  boy?" 

"Well,  he's  rather  a  darling.  He's  sorry  for  street-girls,  and 
warns  me  against  shopwalkers,  and  says  men  are  brutes  to 
women — and  so  they  are.  You  aren't  to  me — you're  rather  nice 
but  you  probably  have  been  to  some  woman.  He  makes  me  feel 
I  want  to  be  good,  and  one  ought  to  feel  like  that.  I  know 
he'll  bore  me  at  times,  but  that's  because  he's  good  and  I'm 
not,  and  I  oughtn't  to  be  bored  really.  He's  lent  me  books 
to  read,  and  I'm  so  ignorant  I  don't  understand  them  and  they 
make  my  head  ache,  but  I  will  try.  I'm  going  to  have  my 
skirts  lengthened,  too,  and  dress  more  quietly.  Gerald  says  it 
isn't  fair  to  men  to  wear  clothes  that  put  wrong  thoughts  into 
their  heads.  What's  the  matter?" 

A  sort  of  strangled  choke  escaped  from  Jenings. 

"My  God,"  he  murmured,  "what  a  world  it  is!  Go  on, 
Dolf." 

You're  awfully  nice,  you  know,"  continued  Dolf  dreamily, 
"and  I  like  you,  but  you  aren't  good.  For  instance  you're  mar- 
ried, and  yet  you're  here  with  Netta  and  me.  You  ought  to  be 
at  home  with  your  wife.  Why  aren't  you?" 

"Because,"  said  Jenings,  remaining  calm  with  a  great  effort, 
"I  feel  more  at  home  here.  My  wife  will  probably  have  a  lot 
of  fashionable  friends  who  talk  the  same  sort  of  condemned 
muck  your  Gerald  does.  They  eat  my  food  and  smoke  my  ciga- 
rettes and  despise  me  because  I  produce  the  low  daily  papers 
that  they  all  subscribe  to  and  enjoy.  I'm  very  busy,  and  in  my 
little  spare  time  I  love  to  be  understood  and  feel  at  rest.  That's 
why  power's  such  a  blessing.  I've  got  power,  so  I  can  give 
my  wife  a  wonderful  museum  of  a  house  in  Hampstead  to  en- 
tertain her  nice  friends  in.  I  can  also  see  that  Netta  gets  the 
best  job  in  her  department  of  your  shop.  If  she  doesn't  they 


64  DOLF 

know  I'll  refuse  their  advertisements.  I  can  also  please  my- 
self." 

Dolf  held  out  a  slim  hand  for  his  cigarette  case. 

"You  have  to  be  ruthless  and  cruel  to  get  power,  anyway. 
It's  all  very  well  to  do  things  for  people  when  you've  got  it, 
but  how  about  the  getting?" 

Jenings  laughed,  and  his  big  ugly  face  lit  up. 

"I'd  rather  be  ruthless  than  have  other  people  ruthless  to  me. 
You're  only  throwing  second-hand  Gerald  at  me  now.  Women 
are  the  most  ruthless  creatures  in  the  world.  A  man  can  go 
to  hell  directly  they  cease  to  want  him  whether  he  wants  them 
or  not.  And  if  he  complains,  my  word!  But  can't  I  do 
something  for  you?  Why  not  let  me  make  a  man  of  Gerald 
for  you?  Several  of  the  fellows  who  run  my  papers  are  first- 
class  man-breakers." 

"You'd  spoil  him,"  she  protested,  like  a  mother  protecting 
her  young.  "Just  now  he's  full  of  beautiful  ideals,  and  I've 
never  met  anyone  like  him  before,  and  I  love  him." 

"What  do  they  pay  him  on  this  high-brow  sheet?" 

"Three  pounds  a  week,"  she  said,  rather  defiantly.  Jenings 
laughed. 

"I  don't  want  him  to  starve  himself  for  you,  or  give  you  a 
rotten  time  merely  for  want  of  money.  May  I  see  what  I  can 
do  for  him?" 

Dolf  smiled  gratefully. 

"You  are  decent.  But  you'll  be  very  careful  and  you  won't 
break  him?  He's  a  frightfully  nice  kid,  as  you'll  see." 

"Me?  /  shan't  see  him.  I'll  ring  someone  up  about  him 
and  give  a  hint  what  he's  to  do.  And  it's  getting  late  and 
you  ought  to  go  to  bed." 

Netta  and  the  palpable  actor  returned  to  earth.  The  two 
couples  became  a  supper  party  of  four.  Jenings,  without 
putting  himself  forward  in  any  way  was  the  life  and  soul  of 
the  gathering,  obviously  happy  himself  and  so  making  others 
happy.  Silently  Dolf  compared  him  to  Gerald,  and  hated  to 


DOLF  65 

see  Gerald  smaller,  inferior.  But  this  man  had  made  good, 
and  Gerald  was  in  the  transition  stage.  One  day  he  might 
be  even  greater.  Yet  she  could  not  help  remembering  that 
Jenings,  who  could  be  presumed  to  know,  had  never  told  her 
what  she  ought  to  do,  whereas  Gerald,  out  of  his  inexperience, 
had  told  her  many  times. 

Finally  the  guests  departed.  Jenings  laid  a  hand  in  half- 
serious  affection  on  Dolf's  golden  head. 

"Don't  get  too  badly  in  love,"  he  warned  her.  "Keep  me 
a  little  corner  of  your  heart  if  you  can.  I  won't  forget 
about  the  beautiful  youth.  Good-bye!" 

Dolf,  who  was  staying  the  night,  discussed  him  almost  fret- 
fully over  their  hair-brushing. 

"I  like  Ralph  awf'ly,  Netta,  but  he's  so  sure  of  himself 
and  sure  he's  right,  in  a  quite  nice  way,  and  the  worst  of  it 
is  he  always  is  right!  I  hated  him  laughing  at  Gerald,  and 
then  he  didn't  laugh  any  more  and  offered  to  help  him.  What 
can  you  do  with  a  person  like  that?  He's  got  you  either 
way." 

Netta  smiled  yawningly. 

"He's  a  big  man,  and  big  men  are  always  like  that.  They 
may  be  brutes,  but  they're  never  narrow,  and  it  takes  a  nar- 
row man  to  be  really  cruel.  Besides,  he  likes  you  and  he 
knows  a  boy  of  twenty-three  hasn't  a  look  in  beside  him. 
He  can  afford  to  wait.  Boys  are  always  narrow  and  gen- 
erally cruel,  consciously  or  unconsciously." 

"Are  they?"  murmured  Dolf  absently.  She  was  thinking 
of  one  boy  in  particular,  coming  towards  her  with  a  south 
wind  blowing  through  his  wavy  hair  and  daffodils  in^his 
arms. 

Meanwhile,  Jenings  talked  to  the  editor  of  the  Daily  Wire 
on  the  telephone. 

"Oh,  Greene,  get  hold  of  a  man  named  Gerald  Heritage, 
who  sub-edits  the  Eclectic  Weekly  and  try  him  out,  will 
you?  Sorry  to  saddle  you  with  a  pup — he's  on'y  twenty — 


66  DOLF 

but  I've  my  private  reasons.  Give  him  six  pounds  a  week. 
I  hear  he's  very  pure,  so  you  might  run  a  crusade  about  Lon- 
don's morals  and  turn  him  on  to  it.  It  hasn't  been  done 
for  at  least  three  weeks,  and  the  Bishops  lap  it  up.  G'bye." 
In  his  boarding-house  bedroom,  Gerald  Heritage  laid  aside 
the  works  of  Christina  Rossetti,  and  fell  asleep. 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  supreme  happiness  of  youth  consists  in  being  able  to 
say  to-day  the  exact  opposite  of  what  one  said  yesterday,  and 
feel  utterly  consistent.  For  this  reason  young  girls  prefer 
middle-aged  men  and  young  men  middle-aged  women.  Other- 
wise life  becomes  too  much  a  jazz. 

Some  such  thought  occurred  to  Dolf  when  Gerald  Heritage 
ambushed  her  homing  footsteps  to  reveal  the  great  news  of 
his  transfer  from  the  Eclectic  Weekly  to  the  Daily  Wire. 

"But  you  said  you  wouldn't  change  with  the  editor  of  the 
Times,  Gerald,"  she  reminded  him,  with  woman's  poisonously 
long  memory  for  the  inessential. 

"That  was  quite  different.  Here  I'm  carrying  the  spirit  of 
the  Eclectic  into  daily  journalism.  I  preach  the  same  ideals 
to  a  wider  congregation.  I'm  doing  a  crusade  against  Lon- 
don's morals.  It's  great!" 

The  sub-editors  of  the  Wire  scarcely  thought  so.  They 
swore,  not  with  the  discursive,  wasteful  profanity  of  the  av- 
erage man,  but  the  apposite,  antiseptic  curses  of  those  born 
and  bred  up  in  a  newspaper  office,  hoicked  out  the  classical 
allusions,  translated  the  stuff  into  journalese,  and  let  it  go. 

Gerald  was  neither  to  have  nor  to  hold.  He  resembled  a 
wilderness  blossoming  as  the  rose.  He  rode  his  hobby  in  and 
out  of  season,  tyrannising  superbly  over  Dolf's  mind,  her 
clothes,  her  food,  her  recreation.  He  took  her  to  classical 
concerts,  and  dismal  Stage-Society  productions  for  the  good 
of  her  soul.  Thanks  to  him  her  clothes  became  dull  and  re- 
spectable. He  gave  her  still  more  books  to  make  her  head 
ache,  but  for  the  wonder  and  splendour  of  his  youth  she  en- 

67 


68  DOLF 

dured  it  all.  It  was  more  than  she  could  bear  to  disappoint 
him. 

In  these  trying  days  Ralph  Jenings,  who  saw  all  things 
and  was  merely  giving  Gerald  enough  rope  wherewith  to 
hang  himself,  tempered  the  wind  to  the  shorn  lamb  from  time 
to  time.  It  was  he  who  sent  Dolf  theatre  tickets  for  the  lighter 
shows  such  as  she  loved.  He  took  her  to  dinner  once  by 
stealth,  and  again,  one  week-end  when  a  chill  laid  Gerald 
low,  he  motored  her  down  to  the  sea  and  back,  and  amused 
her  for  the  whole  evening  in  Netta's  little  flat. 

"After  all,  I  couldn't  have  gone  to  see  Gerald.  He's  in 
bed  and  he  wouldn't  let  me,"  murmured  Dolf  to  excuse  her- 
self. 

"And  yet  he  has  more  clothes  on  in  bed  than  ever  he  wears 
in  the  street,"  commented  Jenings  dryly.  "Probably  he  hasn't 
shaved  for  three  days  and  doesn't  want  you  to  know  it.  Any- 
way the  rest  will  do  you  good.  This  high  mental  altitude 
must  be  a  fearful  strain." 

Being  in  love  to  a  certain  extent  and  unbalanced  in  conse- 
quence, she  confessed  these  little  pleasures  to  Gerald  when 
he  recovered,  and  he  smote  her  with  a  lover's  pitiless  hand. 

"You  must  give  up  meeting  that  fellow,  Dolf.  I  don't 
approve  of  him  nor  his  papers.  He  doesn't  get  on  very  well 
with  his  wife,  and  there's  all  sorts  of  gossip  about  him.  He 
simply  commercialises  literature  to  pay  dividends.  Look  at 
the  half-educated  people  on  his  papers,  and  the  gutter-rags 
they  are!" 

"But  you  work  on  one  of  them  yourself  now,  Gerald." 

"That's  different.  I'm  doing  what  I  can  to  uplift  it,  and 
tackling  a  subject  that  needs  greater  publicity  than  a  weekly 
can  give  it.  Look  what  the  Bishop  of  Battersea  said  about 
my  articles  the  other  day.  And  I  do  write  English — when 
the  sub-editor'll  let  me." 

Dolf,  knowing  the  secret  history  of  Gerald's  new  position, 


DOLF  69 

was  silent.  But  once  again  the  little  devil  of  doubt  whispered 
in  her  ear. 

Nevertheless  a  man  who  loves  is  forgiven  many  things  by 
the  woman  who  loves  him,  so  that  when  August  came,  bring- 
ing holidays  in  its  train,  and  Gerald  suggested  spending 
them  together  in  a  Sussex  seaside  village,  Dolf  smiled  very 
happily  and  agreed.  They  took  rooms  at  separate  age-old 
cottages,  and  their  respective  landladies  exchanged  details  and 
opinions  over  Sunday  cups  of  tea. 

Ralph  Jenings,  when  he  discovered  the  arrangement  in  his 
unobtrusive  way,  leaned  back  in  Netta's  wicker  armchair 
and  smiled  a  mellow  smile  that  forgives  much  because  the 
owner  has  sinned  much. 

"Splendid!"  he  said.  "Nothing  like  a  quiet  holiday  for 
getting  to  know  one  another,  especially  if  it's  wet.  Bring 
me  back  some  shells,  Dolf,  and  send  me  a  post  card  of  the 
ruined  abbey.  I've  got  a  filthy  taste  in  art." 

But  Dolf's  eyes  were  dreamy  with  anticipation.  Mentally 
she  remodelled  and  redecorated  Gerald  until  he  became  the 
perfect  lover,  a  thing  no  man  ever  is  nor  ever  will  be. 

He  met  her  at  the  station  in  the  twilight  of  a  summer  evening, 
a  new  Gerald  in  holiday  flannels  with  bared  head,  and  a 
straight  briar  pipe  in  place  of  the  urban  cigarette.  Grey- 
sands  lay  a  mysterious  blue-grey  blur  between  earth  and  sky. 
Further  off  the  aaah!  aaah!  of  little  waves  breaking  foolishly 
on  a  sandy  shore  came  faintly.  They  stood  hand  in  hand, 
scarcely  breathing,  drunk  with  the  half-sick  ecstasy  of  loving 
one  another,  the  magic  of  contact  and  solitude.  There  seemed 
no  one  in  the  world  but  themselves  and  God,  Who  had  created 
it  solely  for  them. 

"Come,  darling,"  he  said  at  last.  "You  must  be  fright- 
fully tired  and  hungry.  Give  me  your  suit-case,  and  I'll  take 
you  to  your  cottage  and  see  that  they  look  after  you." 

Then  wandered  away  along  the  pathway  to  the  stars  that 
mere  clods  called  the  High  Street,  and  Gerald  introduced  her 


,70  DOLF 

to  Woodbine  Cottage.  He  waited  in  Mrs.  Miggs'  repulsive 
sitting-room,  crowded  with  unutterable  furniture,  and  never 
saw  the  antimacassars,  the  wax  fruit,  nor  the  picture  of  Welling- 
ton meeting  Blucher,  while  Dolf  tidied  her  hair  and  powdered 
her  face.  He  brooded  over  her  like  a  guardian  angel  when 
she  ate,  pressing  food  on  her,  waiting  on  her,  stroking  the 
wonder  of  her  hair.  And  Dolf,  smiling,  accepting  all  this 
worship,  thought: 

"He's  a  dear  boy.  Ralph  would  never  do  all  this  for  me. 
We  should  be  at  the  Palace  Hotel,  and  he  wouldn't  move 
an  eyelash,  but  somehow  every  waiter  in  the  place  would  fly 
around  for  us,  and  we  should  have  everything  even  if  other 
people  had  to  go  without,  and  he'd  know  exactly  when  I 
was  bored  and  go  away  and  play  billiards  with  the  marker 
or  someone.  But  of  course  Gerald's  so  young  and  such  a 
darling,  he  never  realises  I  ever  could  be  bored.  And  a  boy 
is  dreadfully  thrilly,  but  a  man  always  knows  what  you  want, 
even  if  you  don't  know  yourself."  So,  being  a  woman  and 
very  wise,  she  let  him  love  her,  which  is  a  great  secret  some 
women  know.  They  realise  that  love  exists  to  be  given,  and 
if  they  refuse  it  it  may  be  squandered  on  someone  less 
worthy,  and  that  would  be  inexpressibly  sad. 

Finally  they  smoked  a  goodnight  cigarette,  and  at  last  he 
left,  with  a  long,  silent  pressure  of  her  hands.  He  did  not 
kiss  her  because  she  was  too  sacred,  and  only  the  common 
lovers  of  this  life  kiss.  When  he  had  gone  she  stifled  a  little 
yawn  and  went  dreamily  up  to  her  bedroom.  There  were  a 
million  stars  in  the  sky  and  every  one  seemed  her  friend. 

Love  never  stands  still;  it  either  progresses,  or  dies  of 
innutrition,  or  else  one  lover  stands  guard  over  it  and  the 
other  murders  it  before  his  or  her  despairing  eyes.  In  all 
that  wonder- fortnight  Gerald  reached  up  to  heaven  with  rash 
hands  to  import  something  more  wonderful  into  his  first, 
miraculous  love-affair  than  wise,  tried  men  had  ever  achieved 


DOLF  71 

before  him,  and  failed,  as  most  men  fay,  because  he  lacked 
humbleness  of  heart. 

"I  do  love  you,"  he  told  her  night  after  night  when  they 
sat  alone  on  a  great  rock  watching  the  waves  break  at 
their  feet.  "I'm  going  to  do  big  things  because  of  you. 
You'll  be  proud  of  me  when  every  paper  in  London  wants  my 
stuff,  won't  you,  Dolf?  I'll  give  you  the  finest  car  in  exist- 
ence, and  you  shall  have  a  house  in  the  country,  and  you'll 
be  waiting  there  for  me  when  I  come  home  with  my  pockets 
full  of  cheques  for  you." 

He  stroked  her  hair  with  caressing  fingers.  He  had  perfect, 
sensitive  hands  and  she  became  dreamy  from  their  soothing 
passage.  But  her  mind  worked  very  clearly. 

"He's  going  to  do  great  things,"  she  told  herself,  "but  can 
he?  And  all  I  do  is  to  wait  at  home.  I  don't  help,  I  don't 
share.  I  just  fall  into  his  arms,  and  then  wait  at  home. 
And  he  hasn't  even  kissed  me  yet!" 

She  felt  like  some  indistinct  figure  in  a  dream,  and  life 
had  taught  her  reality. 

In  the  morning  two  letters  came.  One  from  Ralph  Jenings; 
the  other  from  Guy  Senlake. 

She  opened  Ralph's  first,  because  he  seemed  the  more 
familiar,  the  more  vivid  and  recent.  Senlake  was  incalculable, 
a  man  of  whom  she  knew  very  much  while  understanding  very 
little,  whose  letter  was  a  mystery  to  her,  something  to  approach 
by  itself. 

Jenings  wrote: 

"Dear  little  girl,  I  hope  you're  having  a  good  time.  There  is  an 
ancient  person  who  misses  you  rather,  and  I'm  he.  But  I  don't  care 
so  long  as  you're  soaking  in  bliss  and  being  filled  with  beautiful  moon- 
shine by  that  boy  of  yours.  If  you  can  spare  me  an  hour  or  two's 
talk  when  you  come  back  I  want  to  ask  you  to  help  me  over  a  job 
of  work.  Any  old  time  that  suits  you  will  suit  me. 

"Netta's  nourishing  and  I'm  not  too  dusty.  If  you'll  say  when  you 
reach  town  I'd  love  to  meet  you  and  motor  you  home  unless  Gerald's 
doing  it.  Cheerio, 

"RALPH  JENINGS." 


72  DOLF 

Dolf  folded  the  letter  thoughtfully  and  pushed  it  down  the 
V  of  her  silk  shirt. 

"He's  made  good  and  he  wants  me  to  help  him,  although 
he  knows  I  can't,"  she  murmured.  Then  slowly,  with  intense 
curiosity  she  opened  Senlake's  note. 

"...  I  called  at  your  shop  and  your  handsome  Netta  gave  me  your 
address.  .  .  .  This  time  you  can  see  I'm  not  interfering.  I  wouldn't  in 
any  case,  but  more  particularly  because  I  want  to  keep  your  friend- 
ship, if  I  haven't  lost  it  already.  You're  such  a  nice  kid,  you  refresh 
a  world-weary  person  like  me.  When  you  return  will  you — if  Romance 
spares  you  time  for  a  remembrance  of  me — let  me  hunt  you  up  some 
day,  and  if  the  gods  are  good  we'll  dine  somewhere  cheap  and  you 
shall  tell  me  why  you  have  the  power  over  me — not  to  make  me 
forget,  but  to  make  me  forget  that  I  remember. 

"Yours  uselessly  but  faithfully, 

"Guv  SENLAKE." 

"Still  another  man  who  wants  my  help,"  she  mused,  and 
thinking  of  Gerald  sighed  profoundly.  Then,  fearing  to  be 
critical  or  unjust  she  shrank  from  further  comparison. 

That  night  Gerald  asked  her  to  marry  him. 

"You  know  I  love  you.  You're  the  dearest  thing  in  the 
world.  May  I  kiss  you,  Dolf?"  he  said  in  a  voice  shaky  with 
earnestness.  And  in  that  moment  she  saw  him  plainly — a 
nice  enough  boy  whom  spring,  summer,  and  her  own  longing 
to  be  loved  had  endowed  with  a  sort  of  artificial  magic. 

"Gerald,  dear,  don't  be  dreadfully  serious.  You'll  make 
me  so  unhappy.  You've  been  awf'ly  nice,  but  I  don't  love 
you  enough  to  marry  you.  You're  ever  so  young,  far  too 
young  to  marry.  We  should  only  be  hard-up  and  get  to 
hate  one  another.  Don't  spoil  a  rather  dear  friendship, 
please!' 

All  his  boy's  pride  flamed  scarlet  in  his  face. 

"But  you  let  me  love  you.  You  know  how  I  adore  you, 
and  now  you  say  you  won't  marry  me.  You're  not  just  a 
heartless  flirt,  are  you?" 

Something  in  his  tone  exasperated  her.  She  stood  away  and 
looked  at  him  coolly. 


DOLF  73 

"Because  girls  like  being  loved  and  taken  care  of,  it  doesn't 
necessarily  mean  they  want  to  marry.  Pr'aps  I  know  what 
marriage  means  better  than  you.  And  if  I  were  to  many 
anyone  it  would  be  a  man,  not  a  boy.  Men  don't  ask  a  girl 
if  they  may  kiss  her,  Gerald.  They  just  do  it." 

With  almost  a  moan  of  anguish  he  sprang  forward,  his 
arms  ready  to  enfold  her,  but  she  avoided  him  and  he  stood 
helpless,  irresolute,  listening  to  the  clatter  of  her  flying  feet 
along  the  cliff  path.  In  the  morning  she  had  vanished,  leaving 
him  a  little  hastily-scrawled  note: 

"I'm  sorry.  If  you  could  have  made  me  love  you  I  might  have, 
but  you  couldn't.  Some  day  you'll  understand.  Don't  be  too  miser- 
able, and  try  not  to  hate  me. — DOLT." 

He  turned  away  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  loathing  all  women. 
But  Dolf,  feeling  as  though  she  had  shaken  the  cares  of  the 
world  from  her  slim  shoulders,  grudged  every  minute  that  the 
racing  train  ate  up  on  its  way  to  London.  Ralph  Jenings 
met  her  at  the  station,  and  a  smile  lurked  behind  his  keen 
grey  eyes. 

On  the  neutral  ground  of  Netta's  flat  where  they  always 
talked,  Jenings  occupied  the  wicker  chair  that  ever  seemed  so 
inadequate  for  his  bulk,  and  Dolf  lay  curled  up  on  the  divan. 
She  felt  very  much  at  home  with  this  man  who  had  a  wise 
smile  and  kind  eyes,  who  never  tried  to  touch  her.  He  might 
indeed  be  trailing  her  with  the  tireless  patience  of  the  old 
hunter,  but  she  felt  grateful  for  the  patience,  not  to  be  taken 
for  granted. 

"So  it's  all  off  with  the  boy,"  he  began  at  last,  making  a 
statement  rather  than  asking  a  question. 

"How  do  you  know,  Ralph?" 

"Because  although  I  may  be  a  fool  I'm  an  old  fool.  That 
clears  the  air  to  a  certain  extent.  And  you  like  me  quite 
well,  and  you  trust  me,  perhaps,  a  shade  more  than  the  next 
man?" 

"M'm." 


74  DOLF 

He  sighed  faintly. 

"I  want  you  to  help  me.  I'm  reorganising  the  fashion 
pages  of  one  or  two  papers.  You  know  all  about  frocks,  and 
the  sort  of  girl  who  picks  her  frocks  from  the  back  pages  of 
a  daily  paper.  Will  you  come  and  do  it?  It  would  pay  you 
better  than  Holbridge  &  Sellingbourne,  and  I'd  love  you 
to  try.  I  want  someone  young,  with  ideas  and  guts.  I 
think  you'd  do,  don't  you?" 

She  stared  at  him  thoughtfully  and  he  became  a  shade 
uneasy,  but  his  eyes  met  hers  quite  candidly. 

"My  dear  Ralph,  you're  a  brick,  but  you  know  perfectly 
well  you  don't  want  me  just  for  my  frock  experience.  It's 
all  on  the  personal  side.  I  like  you,  and  perhaps  you  like 
me  a  little,  but  if  I  were  forty  and  a  frump  instead  of  eighteen 
and  not  a  frump,  well — would  you  ask  me  just  the  same?'* 

"I'm  damned  if  I  would,"  retorted  Jenings  with  hearty  can- 
dour. "I  never  employ  old  women  nor  plain  women.  The 
old  ones  are  fed  up  with  life,  and  the  young  ugly  ones  are 
just  spiritless  servile  duds,  who've  never  had  enough  admira- 
tion from  men  to  put  any  backbone  into  them.  So  now 
you  know." 

Dolf,  feeling  rather  like  Cinderella  turning  down  the  fairy 
godmother,  tried  again. 

"Honestly,  Ralph,  do  you  think  it  would  work  out  de- 
cently? You've  been  the  greatest  pal.  I'd  hate  to  spoil  it. 
Don't  humbug  me,  there's  a  dear.  Are  you  being  absolutely 
straight  about  it?" 

Whatever  he  had  been,  she  made  him  straight  now.  He 
put  out  a  firm,  square  hand  and  took  her  slender  one. 

"I'm  never  quite  mad  over  business.  Come  and  try.  I 
promise  I'll  never  let  you  down.  Will  that  do?" 

She  let  her  hand  lie  in  his  quite  several  seconds.  A  rosy 
dream  of  independence,  of  being  as  good  as  a  man,  made  her 
almost  drunk  with  happiness. 

"Ten  pounds  a  week — if  that'll  do.  .  .  ."     Jenings  mur- 


DOLF  75 

mured,  genuinely  delighted  to  see  her  so  happy.  He  was  a 
good  sort  as  men  go. 

So,  picked  up  and  whirled  by  the  resistless  sea  of  life  in 
a  totally  new  direction,  Dolf  took  leave  of  Holbridge  & 
Sellingbourne  with  the  gay  courage  of  her  years  and  the 
braver  sex,  and  accustomed  herself  to  a  new  hotfoot  world 
pictured  in  landscapes  of  black  and  white.  Her  place  of 
work  became  a  great  humming  building,  electric  from  the  throb 
of  captive  giant  presses,  sweet  and  intoxicating  with  the  faint, 
violet  scent  of  printing  ink.  Her  amateurishness  shocked  all 
the  canons  of  journalism,  and  the  men  helped  her  because  of 
her  slight,  appealing  beauty.  She  consorted  with  strange,  half- 
sexed  girls  who  drew  exotic  fashions  with  cigarette-stained 
fingers.  On  the  whole  the  women  feared  her  vaguely  because 
her  youth  and  freshness  contrasted  with  their  bored,  slightly 
faded  competence.  But  she  did  what  she  could  with  the  keen 
joyousness  of  a  child  over  a  new  toy.  Jenings  professed  him- 
self pleased.  The  staff  of  the  paper  took  their  cue  from  him, 
and  made  Dolf  make  good. 

Yet,  since  newspaper  land  is  a  land  of  gossip,  tidings  of 
her  came  to  Gerald's  ears  and  stung  his  sore  heart  anew  with 
the  violent  acid  of  jealousy.  He  put  on  his  hat,  went  out, 
and  tracked  Dolf  to  her  room  in  the  Daily  Clarion  building. 

She  sat  behind  a  wide  table  littered  with  sketches,  cuttings, 
scissors,  paste,  and  a  box  of  cigarettes.  The  smoke  from  one 
between  her  lips  wreathed  upward,  and  joy-devils  danced  in 
her  blue  eyes. 

He  put  down  his  hat  amid  the  debris  of  a  fashion  page,  and 
stood  looking  at  her. 

"So  this  explains  everything,"  he  said  bitterly. 

"Explains  what,  Gerald?" 

"Why  you  wouldn't  marry  me.  You'd  rather  be  an  old 
man's  darling.  You  prefer  Jenings  to  make  a  fool  of  you. 
The  whole  of  Fleet  Street's  laughing  at  both  of  you.  I 
s'pose  you  think  you're  here  on  your  merits.  My  God!  You!" 


76  DOLF 

"According  to  your  idea,  I  haven't  any  merits  apart  from 
marrying  you,"  said  Dolf  very  smoothly.  "I  don't  agree.  If 
they  didn't  like  me  they  could  sack  me.  Well,  they  haven't." 

"Do  you  know  what  they  call  you  behind  your  back?  They 
call  you  'Giddy  Gertie'.  They  know  why  Jenings  put  you 
here.  They  know  what  he's  after.  Perhaps  you  do,  too.  If 
you  don't,  I'll  tell  you.  He  wants  you  body  and  soul,  but  he 
shan't  have  you.  I'll  go  to  him  and  tell  him  exactly  what  he 
is.  Aren't  I  paid  to  run  a  moral  crusade?  Very  well,  then, 
we'll  start  at  home  and  work  outward  from  there." 

Dolf  removed  the  cigarette  and  looked  at  him  for  a  full 
second,  till  his  knees  shook,  and  cold  water  seemed  to  be 
running  down  his  spine. 

"Once,"  she  said  slowly,  "you  meant  everything  beautiful 
in  life  to  me.  Then  you  bored  me  to  death  with  your  childish 
narrow  way  of  looking  at  life.  Now  I  despise  you  absolutely. 
If  you  say  one  word  to  Ralph  I'll  never  speak  to  you  again. 
I  don't  mind  your  making  a  fool  of  yourself,  but  you  won't 
make  a  fool  of  me,  please.  And  now  I'd  like  you  to  go." 

He  went,  slowly,  just  a  boy  hard-hit  and  crumpled  from  the 
blow.  But  he  left  behind  mere  half-tones  where  he  had  found 
the  high  lights  of  happiness.  For  a  long  time  Dolf  stared 
thoughtfully  at  the  blank  wall  opposite.  Then  shrugging 
wearily  she  continued  her  work. 

Meanwhile  she  had  not  heard  from  Senlake  though  it  was  now 
late  autumn.  But  the  press  of  new  life  and  work  had  driven 
from  her  mind  this  incomprehensible  friend  except  at  rare 
intervals  when  his  picture  would  flash  before  her  with  un- 
expected vividness. 

At  last  there  came  a  note  from  him. 

He  apologized  for  the  unfulfilled  promises  in  his  previous 
letter.  He  had  been  away — he  did  not  say  where — and  he 
hoped  to  call  on  her  shortly  and  hear  how  life  had  treated 
her.  He  trusted  she  had  many  and  joyous  things  to  tell  him; 

She  folded  the  letter  away,  and  tears  smarted  at  the  back 


DOLF  77 

of  her  eyes.  Somehow  this  bit  of  paper  brought  back  so 
much  of  the  past — "old  unhappy  far-off  things,  and  battles 
long  ago." 

One  evening  a  week  later,  as  she  sat  sewing,  another  ghost 
from  the  past  gibbered  on  Dolf's  doorstep  in  the  shape  of 
Tom  Wainwright. 

He  came  prospering  as  he  must  inevitably  prosper;  older 
than  his  twenty-four  years  warranted;  heavier  of  face,  with 
the  mouth  closer  and  more  purposeful;  better  dressed  even  to 
his  tie,  which  was  very  nearly  right. 

"Why  did  you  come?"  she  asked.  "We  didn't  part  on 
the  best  of  terms  or  with  much  respect  for  each  other,  did 
we?" 

He  laughed.  "Oh,  I've  forgotten  all  that.  I  was  a  bit 
hard  on  you,  but  I  was  scared  of  the  old  man.  As  for  to- 
night, I  hardly  know  myself  why  I  came." 

"Perhaps  to  see  if  I'd  ask  you  to  marry  me  again?" 

He  did  not  detect  her  mockery.  "Much  good  that'd  do 
you!"  he  laughed.  "I'm  not  going  to  tie  myself  up  with  a 
family  for  a  long  time  yet,  let  me  tell  you.  And  when  I  do — 
well,  I  have  my  ambitions." 

"That's  plucky  of  you,  Tom,  and  I  hope  you  marry  an 
earl's  daughter.  But  where  do  I  come  in?  And  how  did  you 
find  me?" 

"Your  mother  asked  me  to  look  you  up.  Why  don't  you 
write  to  her?"  he  asked  rebukingly.  She  stared  at  him. 

"Well,  I'm  not  good  at  writing.  But  are  you  so  fond  of 
your  father  that  you  have  to  worry  about  the  way  I  treat 
my  mother?" 

He  stared  back.    "You  haven't  heard  he's  dead?" 

"Dead?  Your  father?"  She  started.  Over  her  flashed  a 
picture  of  the  elder  Wainwright  and  she  struggled  to  associate 
death  with  that  sensual,  sinister  man.  "I  didn't  know,"  she 
faltered. 

"Well,"  said  Tom  bluntly,  "I  don't  pretend  to  grieve.    But 


78  DOLF 

I  thought  of  this;  if  you'd  married  him — and  mind,  I  know 
lots  of  girls  who  would  have — you'd  be  his  widow,  and  what 
should  I  have  done  if  he'd  left  all  his  money  to  you?  And 
there  was  a  good  bit  of  it,  more  than  I  expected,  let  me 
tell  you.  Besides,  probably  there'd  have  been  a  kid,  or 
kids—" 

"Don't!"  cried  Dolf,  recoiling. 

"Well,  7  know.  A  girl  would  feel  like  that.  Anyhow,  you 
see  it's  a  sort  of  gratitude  that  made  me  look  you  up.  Be- 
sides it'll  please  your  mother.  I  went  there  to  lodge  when  he 
died.  Why, — does  that  seem  so  funny?" 

"Well,  yes."  Dolf  remembered  the  miseries  of  home.  But 
the  idea  must  have  been  her  father's,  not  her  mother's.  Prob- 
ably her  mother  did  not  even  receive  the  money  earned  by 
her  additional  toil.  As  for  Tom,  of  course  he  had  found  it 
cheaper  than  anywhere  else. 

"You're  getting  on  pretty  well  in  Holbridge  &  Selling- 
bourne's,  aren't  you?"  he  asked. 

"I'm  in  the  office  of  the  Clarion,"  she  said  coolly,  in- 
wardly amused  by  his  astonishment.  She  saw  appreciation 
leap  to  his  eyes. 

"Honest?  Well,  you  were  always  a  clever  one.  Know  a  bit 
of  life  now,  too, — don't  you?  See  here,  I'm  not  leaving  till 
to-morrow.  What  do  you  say  to  supper  at  a  restaurant?  Not 
the  most  expensive,"  he  added  hastily,  "but  something  lively, 
— you  know  what  I  mean." 

"If  you  mean  something  shady," — she  began  icily,  stifling 
a  smile.  At  the  same  time  his  sheer  energy  and  self-assurance 
impressed  her  as  much  as  his  gross  personality  repelled  her. 

"Oh,  I  didn't  mean  that."  And  he  insisted  so  that  his 
very  forcefulness  began  to  alarm  her,  and  she  knew  only  a 
fiie  could  save  her  from  yielding.  She  told  him  she  stayed  at 
home  to  nurse  a  sick  friend  upstairs,  to  whom  she  must  even 
now  return. 

"All  right!"  he  grumbled  at  last.     Yet  he  did  not  dis- 


DOLF  79 

believe  her,  because  how  could  she — Dolf  Farmer,  who  had 
once  stood  in  her  nightgown  under  his  window,  begging  him 
to  marry  her, — how  could  she  prefer  anything  to  being  his 
guest  for  an  evening  in  London?  "But  next  time  I  come  up 
I'll  let  you  know  ahead.  And  I  must  say  you've  improved, 
Dolf.  Remember  it  won't  mean  anything  serious,  so  don't 
dream  dreams.  I've  got  a  career  ahead." 

"I'll  remember,"  she  promised.  "Goodbye,  Tom.  And  tell 
Mother  I'll  write  some  day.  And — give  her  my  love." 

In  the  morning  she  turned  with  relief  to  work  and  the  one 
man  who  never  failed  her.  But  at  last  even  in  that  clear 
sky  appeared  a  cloud  no  bigger  than  a  man's  hand. 

"Come  and  dine  with  me  at  my  flat  in  Pius  Inn,"  Jenings 
said  one  afternoon,  hiding  his  fear  of  a  refusal  behind  a 
half-smile. 

Dolf  stood  gazing  abstractedly  across  his  big,  solid  room 
in  the  Daily  Clarion  building,  out  over  the  City  roofs  into 
the  western  afternoon  sky,  into  the  future,  the  land  of  dreams, 
eternity.  Her  slight,  motionless  figure  with  its  poignant  lines 
seemed  to  intensify  the  stillness.  Jenings  waited,  as  life  had 
taught  him  to  wait. 

"You  know,"  she  said  at  last,  "we'd  better  not.  We're 
just  friends.  YouVe  been  awf'ly  good  to  me.  We'll  never  be 
more  than  friends,  because  we  mustn't.  I've  got  to  work, 
and  you'll  go  on  helping  me,  won't  you,  and  that — why,  that's 
all.  If  I  liked  you  less,  or  you  liked  me  less, — I  would,  and 
then  there'd  be  no  point  in  it  so  we  shouldn't  want  to.  As  it 
is,  we  just  can't,  can  we?" 

He  never  moved,  and  his  eyes,  fixed  on  hers,  never  flickered. 

"If  I  promised  to  be  perfectly  good;  if  I  said  I'm  much  older 
than  you  and  you're  rather  a  little  girl  to  me;  if  I  told  you 
I  wanted  it  terribly — just  once,  wouldn't  you?  I've  never 
let  you  down,  Dolf,  and  if  I'd  been  going  to,  surely  I  should 
have  by  now?  Can't  you?" 

She  shook  her  head. 


80  DOLF 

"Always  the  same,"  she  murmured.  "Always  a  man  that's 
good  to  you,  always  a  married  man,  always  the  same  history, 
the  same  complications,  the  same  path  that  leads — nowhere. 
Where  else  can  it  lead?  Must  I,  Ralph?" 

"Just  this  once,  if  you  will,  dear.  I  want  to  talk  to  you 
quite  by  ourselves.  And  I'll  be  very  good.  I  haven't  got 
here — "  he  swept  a  vague  hand  indicating  the  vast  building 
that  was  all  his — "without  knowing  how  to  keep  hold  of  my- 
self. To-night?" 

She  nodded  and  turned  away.  For  this  reason  they  sat  in 
his  library  after  dinner,  with  cigarettes  and  coffee.  Through- 
out the  meal  he  had  watched  over  her  with  the  supreme  tender- 
ness of  the  already  damned,  fighting  his  hopeless  fight  with 
the  sheer  doggedness  of  a  man  who  dares  not  think  of  failure. 

Now  he  leaned  forward  in  the  deep  leather  armchair  oppo- 
site hers,  the  cigar  burning  idly  between  the  fingers  of  his 
linked  hands,  a  square-set,  indomitable  figure  of  a  man  at  the 
pinnacle  of  his  career,  and  pitched  himself  and  all  he  had 
joyfully  at  the  slim  feet  of  the  slender  wide-eyed  girl  in 
front  of  him. 

"I  love  you,"  he  said  simply.  "I  know  I  oughtn't  to.  I 
can't  help  it.  I'm  twice  as  old  as  you,  and  I  just  ache  from 
wanting  you.  I  can't  marry  you — you  know  that.  For  the 
rest  you  can  play  skittles  with  me  and  all  I've  got.  If  there's 
anything  in  the  world  you  want  you've  only  got  to  ask  for  it. 
You  know  how  good  I  could  be  to  you  and  would  be  to  you 
you  know  me,  I  daresay,  better  than  I  do.  Now  I  won't 
touch  you  and  I  won't  kiss  you.  You  shall  choose — alone.  I 
love  you  that  much." 

She  looked  at  him  out  of  eyes  that  seemed  suddenly  to  have 
had  dark  streaks  drawn  beneath  them.  In  the  deathly  still- 
ness her  voice  came  trailing  like  something  in  agony: 

"I  love  you,  too." 

She  smiled  across  at  him  with  shaking  lips. 

"Do  you  know,  Ralph,  the  kindest  thing  you  ever  did  for 


DOLF  8 1 

me  was  never  to  kiss  me.  If  you  were  to  I  couldn't  stand 
against  you — I  should  be  done,  finished,  and  I'd  have  to  give 
way.  As  it  is,  I  can  just  manage  it.  My  dear,  you've  your 
place,  and  your  wife  has  hers,  but  in  all  the  wide  world  there 
isn't  any  place  for  me  as  far  as  you're  concerned.  You  know 
there  isn't.  You  know  what  I  should  be.  And  when  you  were 
tired  of  me  you'd  go  back  to  your  wife.  Men  always  go  back. 
Their  wives  know  they've  only  to  wait.  And  I  want  you  all 
to  myself.  You  know  that,  and  you  know  it  can't  be,  and 
what's  the  use?  You  must  let  me  go.  Oh,  please,  Ralph, 
let  me  go.  Don't  kiss  me,  there's  a  dear.  It's  up  to  you  to 
help  me.  Do  help  me,  because  I  want  you  so!" 

They  sat  silent,  and  the  utter  stillness  settled  down  again. 
At  last  he  got  up,  threw  his  cigar  into  the  grate,  and  stood 
looking  down  at  her.  There  was  nothing  in  his  face  that  God, 
or  the  crumpled  figure  in  the  chair  could  throw  up  against  him. 
Ridiculous  as  it  sounds,  probably  he  did  love  her. 

"Where  will  you  go,  when  I  let  you  go?"  he  said  gently. 

"Back  to  Holbridge  &  Sellingbourne's.  Back  to  my  life 
where  I  belong,  and  oh,  my  God,  how  I  wish  I'd  never 
left  it!" 

She  stood  up,  and  a  wan  little  smile  crept  again  over  her 
face.  She  took  the  lapels  of  his  coat  in  her  two  hands,  and 
looked  up  at  him. 

"You  are  a  dear.  Don't  be  sorry.  Kiss  me  just  once. 
It — won't  do  any  harm  now." 

For  a  moment  her  lips  clung  piteously  to  his.  Then  she 
wrenched  away,  picked  up  her  cloak  and  drew  it  round  her 
because  the  room  seemed  to  have  gone  very  cold. 

"Get  me  a  taxi,  please,  Ralph.  And  don't  come  down  with 
me.  Please,  I'd  rather  you  didn't  come  down.  .  .  ." 

There  being  no  fool  like  a  young  fool,  Gerald  Heritage,  when 
he  heard  of  Dolf's  parting  from  Jenings,  called  on  her  one 
evening  after  dinner.  She  received  him  in  her  boarding-house 


82  DOLF 

sitting-room,  and  by  chance  they  were  alone.  He  came  straight 
to  the  point. 

"You've  done  the  right  thing,  Dolf  dear,  as  I  knew  you 
would.  The  man's  a  scoundrel.  I  should  like  to  horsewhip 
him.  And  now  do  say  we  can  be  married.  I'm  well  on  the 
road  to  my  career.  We'll  have  to  begin  simply,  but  we'll  soon 
be  better  off.  I  just  must  be  with  you  to  take  care  of  you. 
It's  horrible  for  you  to  be  alone,  exposed  to  the  attentions  of 
all  sorts  of  men.  I — " 

Her  voice,  interrupting  his,  cut  icy  clear  across  the  tawdry 
little  room. 

"You're  an  utter  prig,  Gerald,  and  I  hate  you  more  than  I 
ever  thought  I  could.  You  come  here  and  throw  mud  at  a 
man  who  gave  you  your  chance,  if  you  care  to  know,  simply 
because  he  thought  I  loved  you.  He's  still  giving  it  you  be- 
cause he  loves  me,  and  I  asked  him  not  to  take  it  away.  He 
was  always  perfectly  sweet  to  me,  he  couldn't  help  loving 
me,  and  when  I  asked  him  to,  he  let  me  go.  He  never  told 
me  what  I  ought  to  do,  as  you  always  do;  he  was  never  jealous 
of  you,  as  you  are  of  him — not  that  he  need  have  been.  He's 
a  man,  Gerald,  and  if  you  try  very  hard  you  may  be,  too, 
some  day,  though  not  a  man  like  him,  but  it'll  take  you  a  long 
time.  Sometimes  I  doubt  if  you'll  ever  manage  it.  And 
now  will  you  please  go,  and  never,  never  see  me  or  speak  to  me 
again!" 

When  he  had  closed  the  door  behind  him,  she  sat  with  her 
hands  locked  in  her  lap,  trying  to  hold  back  the  tears  that 
would  force  themselves  under  her  eye-lids.  She  knew  that  the 
world  is  very  hard,  and  there  seemed  nothing  left  worth  an 
effort.  Never  before  had  she  felt  so  lonely. 

Then  from  very  far  away  came  the  subdued  roar  of  traffic. 
Slowly  she  realised  that  life  still  surged  around  her,  that  for 
no  one's  private  griefs  does  the  world  stand  still,  that  with 
every  new  day  new  opportunity  beckons. 


DOLF  83 

She  crept  slowly  up  to  her  tiny  bedrom.  A  solitary  moon- 
beam trailed  a  silver  path  across  the  worn  carpet.  Somehow 
it  seemed  very  friendly,  and  stooping  down  she  kissed  it 
where  it  rested  on  her  narrow  bed. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

IN  the  wake  of  that  heart-break,  Netta  Blatchley's  scheme 
that  she  and  Dolf  should  live  together  and  start  in  business 
for  themselves  came  as  a  welcome  anaesthetic.  Capital  for 
the  venture  materialised  from  some  mysterious  "friend"  of 
Netta's,  who  provided  it  partly  from  admiration,  partly  in 
hope  of  favours  to  come,  partly  out  of  vanity.  The  provision 
gave  him,  in  his  own  eyes,  a  vague  kinship  with  the  creator. 
He  felt  like  one  raising  up  a  kingdom  which  if  it  pleased  him 
he  might  presently  overthrow  so  that  none  could  realise  it  had 
ever  existed. 

Thus  the  new,  ephemeral  business  venture  in  Sloane  Street 
took  shape. 

Outside  it  rained  the  miserable  depressing  rain  of  five  o'clock 
in  the  afternoon.  Sloane  Street  hid  her  face  in  a  mist  of 
tears,  too  wretched  even  for  the  gusty,  wind-swept  sobs  of 
earlier  day.  Within  the  small  intriguing  shop  whose  win- 
dow displayed  but  one  gown,  one  hat,  and  one  filmy  cham- 
pagne coloured  shirt,  all  unpriced,  Dolf  bent  in  sacrificial  hu- 
mility before  the  imperiousness  of  a  large,  rich  woman.  She 
envied  Netta,  the  head  of  the  undertaking,  her  sanctuaried 
peace  in  the  basement  workroom  at  the  foot  of  a  dozen  break- 
neck steps.  And  while  she  extolled  a  series  of  delicious  little 
hats  too  beautiful  to  be  profaned  by  the  large,  rich  woman's 
sacrilegious  head,  she  watched  covertly  a  vaguely  outlined  man 
who  stared  restlessly  through  the  wet  window  apparently  at 
unpriced  mysteries  he  could  not  pretend  to  understand. 

"Wants  to  buy  undies  for  some  chorus  girl  and  he  won't 
come  in  till  She's  gone,"  Dolf  told  herself.  And  aloud  she 
murmured  coaxingly: 

84 


DOLF  85 

"The  black  satin  chako  is  very  becoming  to  Moddom.  Of 
course  we  could  replace  the  pompom  with  any  other  colour 
that  would  match  Moddom's  gown.  But  the  touch  of  green 
is  very  becoming." 

"Well,  I'll  take  it,"  admitted  the  large,  rich  woman  grudg- 
ingly. "But  six  guineas  is  downright  robbery.  It's  only  a 
bit  of  satin  with  a  green  thingammy  stuck  in  it." 

"A  Paris  model,  Moddom,"  replied  Dolf  with  respectful 
awe,  knowing  perfectly  well  that  Netta  and  she  had  thought 
it  out  together  at  a  total  cost  of  twenty-three  shillings.  "It 
shall  be  sent  by  to-night's  post.  Good-afternoon,  Moddom." 

The  large,  rich  woman  tramped  out  conqueringly.  A 
moment  later  the  stranger  from  the  pavement  entered,  closing 
the  door  carefully  behind  him.  Rain  trickled  down  his 
weather-proof  and  dripped  from  the  soft  felt  hat.  He  raised 
this  and  Dolf  started  back  with  a  little  cry. 

"Guy!" 

Senlake  advanced.    They  shook  hands. 

"When  did  you  return  to  London?"  she  asked,  unaccount- 
ably glad. 

"A  few  days  ago,  Dolf." 

"And  you've  really  hunted  me  up?  or  is  it  just  accident?" 

"Accident?    What  could  bring  me  here  except  you?" 

"I'm  so  glad,  Guy." 

"You  look,  as  usual;  fairer  than  the  children  of  men,"  he 
went  on,  and  at  that  moment  Netta  appeared  at  the  top  of  her 
flight  of  steps  from  the  workroom,  yawning.  Dolf  introduced 
him. 

Netta's  quick  greeting  had  an  eagerness  that  few  men 
aroused,  as  if  Senlake  attracted  her  more  than  other  men.  He 
implored  her  to  dine  with  Dolf  and  him  on  the  following 
night  and  although  she  declined  there  was  a  hint  of  regret  in  her 
voice.  When  they  had  struggled  on  to  a  bus  Netta,  glancing 
back  at  him  as  he  disappeared  in  the  crowd,  said: 

"Isn't  he  the  mysterious  man  you  met  at  the  boarding 


86  DOLF 

house?"  Dolf  had  called  him  mysterious  before  she  had  really 
known  him.  Since  that  day  in  the  park  she  had  seldom  re- 
ferred to  him  and  no  one  knew  anything  of  their  odd  friend- 
ship. She  nodded.  "I  liked  him,"  Netta  went  on,  "but  he 
gave  me  an  uncanny  feeling  as  if  he  were  someone  in  dis- 
guise." 

"He  isn't.  But  I  admit  he  does  give  that  impression. 
P'raps  it's  part  of  his  charm." 

"Is  he  married?" 

"Yes,  but  I  believe  they've  separated." 

"Then  he  can't  marry  you.  So  it's  the  same  old  story  after 
all." 

"My  dear  Netta,  I  assure  you  he  doesn't  want  anything 
like  that  from  me.  He  never  even  hinted  at  it, — not  once." 

"Then  why  does  he  dig  you  out?" 

"Friendship,  nothing  else.  I  suppose  there  can  be  a  man 
like  that  in  all  the  world." 

A  cynical  smile  curved  Netta's  clear-cut  mouth. 

"If  there's  one  thing  I've  never  believed  in  it's  platonic 
friendship.  It  may  exist  but  it's  like  heaven  and  souls  and 
so  on — you've  never  actually  seen  the  thing,  for  all  the  talk 
about  it.  And  with  his  sort,  and  your  sort  of  girl,  I  simply 
don't  believe  it.  Experience  hasn't  taught  you  much,  my  dear. 
And  anyway,  married  men  are  hell,"  she  ended  as  if  she  had 
the  best  reasons  for  knowing. 

Senlake  came  next  day  just  as  twilight  was  deepening  into 
darkness  and  the  streets  of  London  seemed  tinged  with  the 
bitter-sweet  of  the  dying  year. 

Leaving  him  with  Netta,  Dolf  ran  down  to  the  work-room  to 
powder  her  face. 

Her  high  heels  clattered  down  the  steep  steps  full  of  the 
joy-music  that  seems  to  radiate  from  a  happy  girl.  Senlake 
looked  consideringly  at  Netta  Blatchley. 

"You  wonder  so  much  what  I'm  after,  what  the  game  is, 
don't  you?"  he  mused  aloud.  "If  I  tell  you  the  truth  you'll 


DOLF  87 

never  believe  me  because  you  and  I  are  too  wise  to  recognise 
truth  when  we  see  it.  I'm  very  old  and  tired  and  she's  fright- 
fully young  and  keen.  She  looks  such  a  pretty  kid  when  she's 
pleased.  It  isn't  very  wrong  to  please  her  and  then  watch, 
is  it?  Tell  me,  you  inscrutable  dragon." 

"No,  not  if  you  stuck  at  that,"  she  said  colouring  very 
faintly.  (Since  when  had  Netta  Blatchley  ever  been  self- 
conscious  with  a  man?)  "But  by  and  by  you'll  kiss  her — 
and  she'll  catch  fire  from  the  kiss  and  dash  off  into  a  sort  of 
passionate  thunderstorm.  Then  when  you're  tired  of  it  you'll 
have  a  beautiful  renunciation  scene  and  leave  Dolf  with  a 
sort  of  half-baked  love-affair  that'll  make  her  miserable  for 
weeks.  Better  go  now.  It's  healthier,  and — kinder." 

He  stared  a  moment,  then  laughed  so  frankly  that  she 
joined  in. 

"I  know  you're  genuinely  fond  of  Dolf.  Well,  so  am  I.  You 
can  believe  me  absolutely  when  I  say  that.  Honestly,  you 
needn't  worry." 

She  gazed  back  at  him.  To  her  own  profound  amazement 
she  did  believe.  And  she  was  candid  enough  to  tell  him  so, 
just  as  Dolf  came  running  up  the  steps. 

She  came  towards  him  in  a  black  frock,  her  fair  hair  swathed 
in  a  turban  with  a  projecting  brush  at  right  angles  to  it. 
The  pleased  look  of  the  taken-out  girl  lit  up  her  oval  face 
and  calm  eyes. 

"Come  on,  Guy!  Do  let's  hurry!  I'm  sick  of  work  and 
the  shop.  I'll  be  home  sometime,  Netta  dear.  Don't  bother 
about  me." 

They  dined  modestly  at  Jules'.  Sitting  opposite  him, 
Dolf  could  observe  Senlake.  He  looked  exactly  as  he  had 
looked  before.  If,  as  Mrs.  Bainbridge  had  surmised  at  the 
time  of  his  departure  from  the  boarding-house,  he  had  cheered 
up,  now  he  had  relapsed.  His  clothes,  then  different  and  new, 
seemed  like  their  predecessors,  because  he  had  not  taken  care 
of  them.  His  manner  was  not  changed.  And  perhaps  because 


88  DOLF 

he  did  not  ask,  she  told  him  all  that  had  happened  to  her. 
He  was  interested  in  the  newspaper  experience,  but  not  curious 
about  Jenings,  of  whom  indeed  she  said  little. 

"Your  plunge  into  life  seems  to  have  agreed  with  you,"  he 
mused.  She  caught  a  qualifying,  almost  regretful  note  in  his 
voice. 

"What  is  it  you  don't  like?"  she  asked  frankly. 

"What?  Oh,  well,  nothing — except  perhaps  that  you  seem 
older." 

"Of  course,  I'm  almost  nineteen."  But  she  knew  what  he 
meant  and  was  too  kind  to  say, — that  in  her  sort  of  life  girls 
grow  old  not  by  years  but  by  months,  weeks.  At  the  start 
she  had  never  been  childishly  ignorant;  now  looking  back  on 
her  twenty  months  in  London  she  realised  how  swiftly  knowl- 
edge may  come. 

"At  any  rate  I  haven't  any  white  hairs,"  she  began,  and 
stopped  abruptly.  She  remembered  the  tinge  of  premature 
grey  at  his  temples.  She  seemed  always  to  blunder  with  him, 
,who  never  blundered  with  her. 

"And  you'll  never  have  them,  Dolf  dear,"  he  smiled.  "But 
now  that  you've  told  me  all  about  the  past  let  me  hear  about 
the  present.  There  must  be  someone  in  your  life,  of  course. 
It  couldn't  be  otherwise." 

She  laughed,  colouring  faintly. 

"Well,  yes,  there's  always  Reggie." 

"Who's  Reggie?" 

"Oh,  he  sort  of  takes  me  about,  kisses  me,  gives  me  dinner, 
carries  parcels.  I'm  not  exactly  in  love,  but  one  likes  to  be 
taken  care  of." 

"You  mean  you  still  love  Jenings?" 

She  shook  her  head,  acting  a  lie  she  dared  not  utter, 
For  would  anyone  ever  take  Ralph's  place?  "You  see,  he  was 
so  strong  and  such  a  dear  and  one  doesn't  forget  very  quickly. 
And  Reggie  isn't  the  sort  to  make  me.  But  he's  nice,  really, 
in  his  way.  He's  in  the  Guards — and  you  do  have  to  have 


DOLF  89 

one  man  to  keep  off  the  others,  don't  you?"  She  paused. 
"I  don't  mean  to  be  flippant,  Guy.  It  doesn't  matter  if  I 
am,  with  you,  though,  because  you  know  the  real  me  under- 
neath. Somehow  you  always  seem  to  understand."  She 
paused  and  he  smiled  rather  sadly.  She  did  not  know  that 
he  was  repeating  to  himself  "  'Strong  and  such  a  dear.' 
Well,  that's  what  I  wasn't.  And  so  she  did  forget  quickly." 
For  a  moment  it  was  not  Dolf  he  saw,  but  an  older  woman 
with  glorious  auburn  air,  a  cruel  lovely  mouth  and  mocking 
eyes.  Dolf  glanced  at  him  uneasily;  with  a  faint  lift  of  the 
shoulders  he  begged  her  pardon. 

"I'm  a  dull  dog,  aren't  I?"  he  said  smiling. 

"Oh  Guy,  I'd  hoped  you'd  forgotten  while  you  were  away." 
All  at  once  her  eyes  flashed.  "You  are  much  too  dear  and 
wonderful  for  that  woman  to " 

She  stopped,  seeing  the  change  in  his  expression,  remember- 
ing how  once  before  he  had  hurt  her  when  she  criticised  his 
wife. 

"Let's  talk  about  Reggie,"  he  suggested.  "So  he  only 
kisses  you?  Tell  me  more  about  him,  Dolf." 

She  offered  him  a  cigarette  from  a  little  gold  case. 

"Reggie  gave  it  to  me.  You  can  look  at  his  photograph  in- 
side if  you  like.  I've  never  shown  it  to  anyone  else.  Re- 
member, he's  just  a  nice  big,  cheery,  passionate  boy.  He's 
got  to  kiss  somebody,  and  pr'aps  I've  got  to  be  kissed  occa- 
sionally, and  we're  quite  good  on  the  whole  and  I  look  after 
him  and  keep  him  out  of  mischief.  At  the  moment  I'm 
the  only  girl  he  kisses  really  seriously — to  be  in  love  with,  that 
is.  I  could  never  share  that  kind  of  thing  with  any  other 
woman.  Fancy  knowing  he  was  going  on  from  me  to  her! 
My  God,  as  if  I  would  ever  play  second  fiddle  to  anybody!" 

"So  his  name's  Reggie  and  he's  in  the  Guards"  observed 
Senlake.  He  took  the  gold  toy  and  studied  the  photograph 
of  a  typical  subaltern  slipped  under  the  elastic. 

"Ah!     He  looks — er — a  good  sort"  he  went  on  in  exactly 


QO  DOLF 

the  same  tone  and  handed  back  the  cigarette  case.  "And 
you're  the  only  girl  he  kisses  for  love?  Splendid!" 

"Don't  dislike  him  from  the  photo,"  she  pleaded,  "and  a 
poor  one  at  that.  We  aren't  really  in  love  and  it  isn't  very 
deep.  I'm  only  a  corner  of  his  life  and  he's  only  a  corner 
cf  mine,  but  it's  a  jolly  corner  and  a  unique  one,  and  I'd 
rather  not  spoil  it." 

"I'd  like  a  little  corner,  too,  Dolf,"  Senlake  said  gently, 
"in  exchange  for  the  rather  large  place  you  have  in  my 
thoughts.  I  don't  expect  you  on  your  good  days,  but  if 
you'd  spare  me  just  the  off  ones  when  you're  tired,  and  your 
hair  won't  go  up,  and  your  skin  doesn't  fit,  and  God  hates 
you?  You  need  never  be  desperately  bright  and  earn  your 
dinner  with  me.  I'll  always  understand,  because  I  get  tired 
too." 

She  stretched  a  hand  across  the  table  and  laid  it  on  his. 
"You're  far  too  gentle  with  women.  We  always  fool  men 
like  you.  Men  ought  always  to  be  exacting  and  never  let  a 
girl  off.  Girls  hate  them  for  it,  but  they  respect  them,  too,  in 
a  kind  of  miserable,  oppressed,  sick-hearted  way." 

"Thank  you,"  he  said  thoughtfully.  "I  think  I'd  rather  go 
on  being  a  fool.  In  my  own  foolish  way  I  get  more  out  of 
it.  But  I  know  what  I  lose,  and  how  I  hate  the  other  kind 
of  man  who  just  takes,  takes  all  the  time  and  never  goes 
short! 

"Do  you  suppose"  he  went  on  passionately  "that  a  woman 
who's  lived  with  the  same  man  ten  years  cares  a  damn 
whether  he  kisses  someone  else  or  not?  Women  are  less  roman- 
tic than  men;  they  get  so  used  to  you  that  for  them  almost 
any  variant  of  the  monotony's  better  than  none.  When  the 
thrill,  the  dither,  or  whatever  you  like  to  call  it,  goes  out  of 
the  relationship  of  the  married,  the  woman  in  the  case  looks 
calmly  round  and  fills  in  the  void  with  a  child  or  two,  social 
humbugging  or  whatever  pleases  her.  It's  almost  up  to  her 
husband  to  find  some  girl  and  create  a  fresh  interest.  It  also 


DOLF  91 

excuses  his  wife  if  she  wants  to  find  a  man.  Doesn't  decency 
compel  these  things?  Believe  me  it  does." 

Dolf  looked  at  him  steadily.  Then  he  meant  her  to  under- 
stand he  too  had  found  some  girl.  Or  had  he  tried  that 
and  proved  it  vain  and  empty,  and  was  that  why  he  spared 
her? 

"No,  it's  because  he  doesn't  want  to  hurt  me, — any  girl  of 
my  sort,"  she  told  herself  almost  fiercely.  "He  knows  that 
a  girl  who  works  can't  afford  passionate  friendships;  they  rag 
her  and  spoil  her  and  drag  at  her  vitality.  He  just  means  to 
be  a  pal,  and  I'm  lucky,  ever  so  lucky!" 

Taking  her  home,  he  climbed  the  stairs  to  her  flat  and  fol- 
lowed her  into  the  little  sitting-room,  typically  scented,  fem- 
inine and  rubbishy,  and  lit  the  valedictory  cigarette.  As  he 
took  her  hand  in  farewell  a  wave  of  emotion  seemed  to  emanate 
from  him  to  her.  The  lines  of  his  face  deepened  a  little;  he 
released  her  hand  and  smiled. 

A  moment  later  the  hall  door  had  clicked  behind  him. 

When  he  had  left  her  Dolf  stood  for  a  monent  in  thought. 
Then  she  pattered  into  the  bedroom  where  Netta  lay  reading 
a  magazine. 

"Well?"  said  Netta,  looking  up. 

"Oh,  he's  just  Guy,  dear.  And  he's  being  so  good.  I  sup- 
pose there's  only  one  in  the  world  like  that,  don't  you?" 

"And  you've  got  him,"  said  Netta  slowly.  "I  s'pose  you're 
lucky."  Dolf  began  fidgetting  restlessly  up  and  down  the 
room. 

"Netta,"  she  said  after  a  pause,  "you  know  we  live  awfully 
stingy  lives.  I  simply  must  have  another  frock  or  two.  The 
only  way  one  can  hold  the  interest  of  a  man  like  Guy  is  with 
clothes;  I  don't  want  to  lose  him  completely.  Can't  we 
take  out  more  of  the  profits  in  salaries?" 

"I've  been  doing  accounts.  They're  not  very  rosy.  Instead 
of  taking  money  out  we  ought  really  to  get  some  other  man 
to  invest  a  little  more  capital." 


92  DOLF 

"But  who?    I  don't  know  of  one,  do  you?" 

Netta  threw  the  magazine  on  the  floor,  pushed  back  her 
hair  and  shook  her  head. 

"Oh  well,  men  are  like  hell,  and  life's  hell,  but  what  are 
we  to  do?  Tear  off  your  things  and  let's  switch  out  the  light, 
dear.  I'm  as  tired  as  ten  dogs." 


CHAPTER  IX 

BUT  even  on  the  brink  of  a  business  crash  life  goes  on.  In 
the  fulness  of  time  Dolf  found  herself  again  dressing  to  go 
out  with  Reggie,  decking  herself  as  a  girl  does  for  her  lover, 
lingering  happily  over  each  detail  of  her  beauty.  Her  hair 
lay  cunningly  swathed  about  her  head,  her  happy  eyes  lit 
up  her  delicate  face,  its  satin  skin  tinged  very  slightly 
with  artificial  pink.  Netta,  cigarette  in  mouth,  strolled  in 
and  watched  dispassionately. 

"You're  getting  too  fond  of  that  lad"  she  said  cynically. 
"You  put  on  your  clothes  as  if  you  were  dressing  for  your 
wedding.  He's  eaten  up  with  conceit  like  all  boys  and  he'll 
only  let  you  down." 

"For  Heaven's  sake,  Netta — " 

A  ring  at  the  hall  door  interrupted  her.  She  fled  away  to 
admit  Reggie  Mayne,  looking  very  perfect  in  his  dress  clothes 
because  his  father  and  grandfather  had  done  so  before  him 
for  countless  generations.  She  led  him  into  the  sitting-room 
and  let  herself  be  kissed  as  only  artists  like  Reggie  can  kiss. 

"You  darling,"  he  murmured  into  the  fair  hair,  with  a  tacit 
implication  that  she  must  be  if  he  said  so. 

Dolf  caught  the  lapels  of  his  coat  and  looked  up  at  him 
with  a  touch  of  that  self-immolation  before  the  male  peculiar 
to  women  of  her  social  order. 

"You  don't  love  any  girl  but  me,  do  you,  Reggie?  You  don't 
kiss  any  other  woman  really  seriously?  'Cause  if  you  do,  you 
see  I'd  have  to  give  you  up  and  I  don't  want  to.  I'd  never 
be  second  in  any  man's  life." 

He  caressed  the  fair  head  gently,  feeling  no  end  of  a  fellow 
because  the  pretty  child  was  so  obviously  his. 

93 


94  DOLF 

"Silly!  Of  course  I  don't.  You're  too  attractive  for  me 
to  want  anybody  else.  Buck  up  though  or  you'll  have  to 
gobble  your  food  and  be  late  for  the  show." 

She  went  out  and  ate  with  him  a  dinner  vastly  different 
from  that  of  Senlake.  She  played  the  role  of  pretty  plaything 
to  perfection.  It  was  a  glittering  meal  in  gilded  surroundings, 
rich  with  fine  wines  and  flowers  and  hot-house  fruit.  She 
earned  her  dinner  with  a  dash  and  gaiety  that  kept  him  chained 
hand  and  foot  by  sheer  charm.  She  sat  in  his  box  and  watched 
the  latest  revue,  criticised  the  girls  and  their  clothes,  or  lack 
of  clothes,  laughed  daringly  at  the  innuendoes  of  the  funny 
men.  But  she  had  her  reward  in  dazzling  and  fascinating  a 
good-looking  young  soldier,  in  making  him  the  envy  of  most 
men  in  the  theatre.  Afterward  she  paid  toll  with  kisses, 
nestling  against  him  in  the  silky-running  car,  and  again  when 
he  said  good-night  to  her  in  the  flat.  These  were  the  trophies 
of  her  swiftly-fleeting  youth  that  a  girl  must  gather  while 
she  may  or  not  gather  at  all. 

"You  do  love  me?"  was  her  last  word  to  him,  and  "Yes,  I  do 
love  you!"  his  to  her. 

On  a  certain  morning  when  Senlake's  wife  entered  the  shop, 
Dolf  was  by  no  means  sure  at  first.  The  woman  with  Mrs. 
Senlake  called  her  Sonia.  Was  that  his  wife's  name?  Though 
Dolf  had  a  keen  memory  the  one  glimpse  she  had  had  of 
Mrs.  Senlake  in  the  park  was  blurred  because  then  Dolf  had 
been  too  occupied  with  her  own  trouble  to  note  carefully 
the  cause  of  Guy's. 

Meanwhile  she  studied  the  two  women,  smiling  conven- 
tionally and  suitably.  She  said  "Yes,  Moddom,"  and  "I 
think  it  would,  Moddom"  to  the  other  woman  while  "Sonia," 
half-bored,  acted  as  connoisseur  of  hats.  However,  in  trying 
on,  her  companion  after  barely  glancing  at  a  Paris  model 
exclaimed: 

"But  Sonia,  this  would  just  suit  you,  wouldn't  it?" 

Sonia  laughed  and  set  the  hat  on  her  beautiful  head,  where 


DOLF  95 

its  deep  shade  of  dulled  peacock-blue  lent  new  glory  to  the 
auburn  tresses.  Both  laughed,  and  Dolf  heard  the  other  say, 
"Sonia,  that  shade  of  blue  was  made  for  you!"  and  Sonia 
replied  "It  is  rather  delightful.  I  used  to  wear  it  a  lot. 
It  was  Guy's  favorite.  Angela,  you're  right,  I'll  have  it."  An 
insolent  laugh  curled  her  lips,  and  it  had  not  vanished  when 
she  turned  to  Dolf  and  asked  "How  much  does  it  cost?" 

"Ten  guineas,  Moddom." 

'Mrs.  Senlake's  eyebrows  rose  while  her  companion  ex- 
claimed at  the  price  but  Dolf  was  smilingly  firm.  Sonia 
laughed  mockingly. 

"All  right.  I'll  take  it  at  ten  guineas."  Dolf,  who  had 
until  to-day  loathed  her  abstractly,  on  principle,  hated  afresh 
the  poise  and  elegance  of  this  woman  who,  instinct  told  her, 
was  cruel  and  selfish  to  the  core. 

When  Mrs.  Senlake  had  gone  Dolf  stared  at  the  Pont  Street 
address  she  had  scribbled.  All  that  life,  that  background 
flashed  before  her.  It  was  not  only  hate  now,  but  envy,  too, 
that  she  felt  for  the  Sonia  Senlakes  who  make  the  Dolf  Farm- 
ers feel  anew  the  cheapness  and  vulgarity  out  of  which  they 
sometimes  struggle  by  their  own  efforts. 

"She  deserves  no  credit!"  Dolf  cried  aloud.  "She  in- 
herited everything,  and  lives  on  his  money  and  makes  him 
poor." 

And  then  for  her  to  throw  over  a  man  like  Guy!  "She's 
a  devil.  And  he  cares  so  much  he's  let  her  spoil  his  life,  and 
she  laughs.  I  can  see  her  laughing  at  his  love  just  as  she 
laughed  here.  Well,  I  made  her  pay  for  her  beastly  hat!" 

But  shame  for  that  trick  assailed  her,  and  before  an  hour 
passed  she  repented  thoroughly  of  her  spite  and  pettiness,  re- 
gretting as  well  the  treachery  in  herself  against  Guy.  After 
all,  he  did  love  this  woman,  and  to  be  horrid  to  his  wife 
was  no  way  to  be  a  friend  to  him.  And  she  did  want  to  be 
his  friend. 


96  DOLF 

"Mrs.  de  Blancheforet  Senlake,"  murmured  Netta  later, 
looking  up  from  the  bill.  "Is  this  your  Senlake's  wife?" 

"Couldn't  it  be  his  sister-in-law?"  drawled  Dolf. 

"It's  his  wife,"  said  Netta  slowly  out  of  a  complete  intui- 
tion. 

"Yes,  if  you  must  know.  But  Netta,  we're  not  to  tell 
him.  We  mustn't  speak  of  her  to  him.  That's  the  one  thing 
you  must  grasp." 

"Oh,"  said  Netta  irritably,  "I  shan't  mention  her.  D'you 
think  I've  no  tact?"  And  after  a  pause,  "What  was  she 
like?"  she  asked  more  gently,  in  a  new,  half-embarrassed  tone. 

Dolf  described  her  briefly.  Netta  said  nothing,  but  a  few 
moments  later  she  exclaimed  "Ten  guineas  1  What  was  ten 
guineas?  Did  she  take  two  hats?" 

"No,  it  was  a  mistake  for  six." 

"Mistake — ?"  As  Dolf  was  silent  Netta  eyed  her  for  a 
moment.  At  last  she  said,  "Well,  if  she  didn't  know  it  was 
a  mistake,  it  needn't  be,  need  it?"  and  laughed  oddly. 

Dolf  swung  round,  her  fierceness  astounding  Netta. 

"It  was  a  mistake,  and  I'll  correct  it.    Only  don't  nag  me." 

"Nag!"  cried  Netta  bitterly.    "My  god-fathers!" 

"And  don't  say  'my  god-fathers';  you're  not  the  type  who 
can  afford  to.  We're  not,  you  and  I,  we're — Oh  damn  Sonia 
Senlake!" 

Netta  made  no  reply  but  after  a  long  look  at  Dolf  she  went 
out  to  have  her  lunch. 

Dolf  meant  to  telephone  her  "mistake"  to  Mrs.  Senlake 
that  afternoon,  but  almost  immediately  the  plan  was  replaced 
by  one  of  a  different  nature.  Instead  of  sending  the  hat, 
she  would  take  it. 

When  was  this  sort  of  woman  at  home?  Probably  be- 
tween tea  and  dinner.  Accordingly  at  half-past  six,  assuming 
a  meekness  that  contradicted  her  smart  appearance,  she  found 
herself  in  Mrs.  Senlake's  boudoir. 

For  the  first  time  in  her  life  Dolf  saw  the  home  of  a  rich 


DOLF  97 

and  elegant  woman.  At  every  step  she  realised  increasingly 
the  chasm  between  her  life  and  this.  But  self-respect  at 
earning  her  own  living,  together  with  the  purpose  of  her  errand 
kept  her  proudly  erect  even  when  at  last  she  stood  face  to  face 
with  Sonia,  who  looked  up  from  the  silken  cushions  where 
she  lay  in  an  apricot-coloured  rest-gown,  halo'd  by  the  smoke 
of  an  amber-scented  cigarette. 

"I've  delivered  it  myself,  Mrs.  Senlake,  in  order  to  correct 
a  mistake,"  Dolf  said  evenly. 

"What  mistake?  Oh,  the  price?  Was  it  more  than  ten 
guineas?" 

"It  should  have  been  six." 

"Very  well.  Put  six  on  the  bill."  And  Sonia  turned  away 
to  choose  a  fresh  cigarette,  implying  that  Dolf  was  dismissed. 

"But,"  said  Dolf  softly,  "that's  only  what  I  pretended  to 
come  for." 

It  took  all  her  courage  to  meet  unflinchingly  the  stare  from 
the  widened  green  eyes. 

"Will  you  explain  yourself?" 

"Yes,"  answered  Dolf,  meeting  the  command.  "Your  hus- 
band, Guy  Senlake,  is  a  friend  of  mine." 

The  green  eyes  grew  larger.  Truly,  they  were  wonderful 
in  their  astounded  hauteur.  After  a  long  pause  Sonia  said: 

"Really?  I'm  not  surprised,  except  at  your  insolent  audac- 
ity. Guy  and  I  long  ago  chose  separate  roads  and  since 
that  time  his  love  affairs  have  concerned  me  as  little  as  mine 
have  concerned — or  could  possibly  concern — him." 

"I  knew  you'd  say  that,  about  love  affairs,"  Dolf  replied 
quietly.  Everything  in  this  woman  roused  in  her  the  instinct 
of  independence  and  pride.  "I  wonder  if  you'd  believe  me  if 
I  said  it  wasn't  that  at  all?" 

"It  isn't  a  matter  of  belief,"  contradicted  Mrs.  Senlake,  "it's 
a  matter  of  whether,  having  delivered  the  hat  I  bought  this 
morning  at  the  shop  where  you  work,  you  will  now  leave 


98  DOLF 

immediately  or  whether  I  shall  have  to  ring  for  someone  to 
show  you  out.  I  hope  you  will  make  a  prompt  decision." 

Dolf  dug  her  nails  into  her  palms  and  kept  her  ground. 
In  either  white  cheek  burned  a  spot  of  scarlet. 

"Oh,  I  know  you  can  have  me  shown  out,  but  I'm  not  here 
because  I  enjoy  it.  I  only  came  because  he's  so  fine  and 
decent,  too  fine  to  suffer  so  much,  and  I  thought  perhaps  if 
you  knew  how  he  suffers  you'd  find  some  way  to  make  him 
less  unhappy.  Perhaps  you  haven't  realised  how  he  cares 
for  you  and  how  it's  wrecking  his  whole  life.  If  you  knew, 
surely  you  wouldn't  go  on  hurting  him  so.  You  wouldn't 
dare." 

Mrs.  Senlake's  hand,  which  at  the  beginning  of  this  speech 
had  moved  toward  the  bell,  hesitated  as  for  the  moment  her 
anger  was  mastered  by  sheer  incredulity. 

Dolf  followed  up  her  precarious  advantage. 

"I  know  how  impossible  it  is  of  me — and  I  know  Guy  would 
never,  never  speak  to  me  again  if  he  knew,  and  that  would  hurt 
me.  Girls  of  my  kind  don't  find  that  sort  of  man  every  day. 
In  your  life  everything's  safe;  you  make  your  own  laws 
and  codes,  but  every  time  we  make  a  friend  we  gamble.  And 
I  suppose  it's  the  gambler  in  me  that  made  me  come  to  you. 
Either  you'd  throw  me  out  or  you  wouldn't;  either  you'd 
not  care  about  Guy  or  how  his  life  goes  to  ruin  because  he 
can't  forget  you,  or  you'd  care  a  little  bit — enough  to  listen 
to  a  girl  he's  been  decent  to.  I  thought  perhaps  you'd 
even  be  proud  of  him  for  being  so  faithful.  Most  men  aren't, 
even  if  they  are  mad  about  some  other  woman.  Most  of 
them  are  all  the  more  selfish  and  cruel,  just  to  forget  the 
one  for  a  little  while.  And  of  course  you  can  see,"  she  added 
bluntly,  "I'm  not  so  ugly  nor  old  nor  stupid  that  I  can't 
attract  a  man  if  he  wants  to  look  on  me  as  a  means  of  for- 
getting." 

Sonia  gazed  at  her  steadily,  abandoning  the  idea  of  ringing, 
at  least  for  the  present.  She  saw  before  her  a  girl  she  could 


DOLF  99 

no  longer  regard  as  a  mere  shopgirl,  but  rather  as  a  sister- 
woman  whom  immaturity  alone  rendered  unequal  in  strength 
for  the  present  contest.  There  was  a  long  silence. 

"You've  come  here  to  ask  me  to  take  Guy  back?"  she  asked 
at  last. 

"No.  How  could  I?  How  do  I  know  know  what  would 
be  best?  I  only  thought  that  if  you  knew  he  still  cares  so 
much  you'd  know  of  some  way  to  help  him." 

"And  you  say  that's  what  you  yourself  haven't  tried  to  do?" 

"You'll  never  believe  me,"  declared  Dolf.  "That  means 
you  don't  understand  his  character  nor  appreciate  it.  Yet  he 
loves  you.  The  world's  a  queer  place!" 

"Yes,"  answered  Mrs.  Senlake  slowly,  "it's  a  place  where 
things  go  by  contraries.  For  instance,  though  for  your  age, 
you're  something  of  a  philosopher  about  men  and  women,  you 
forget  that  a  woman  never  loves  her  slave.  It's  only  the  man 
she  never  wholly  possesses  whom  she  really  loves.  Hasn't  this 
been  your  experience? — unless,  of  course,  you  get  your  ideas 
less  from  experience  than  from  observation.  And  observation 
is  never  trustworthy,  however  much  you  peer  and  pry  into  the 
private  affairs  of  people  beyond  your  life  and  station." 

She  had  risen,  and  was  now  at  the  door,  which  she  was 
about  to  open.  All  the  colour  had  left  Dolf's  face,  but  she 
did  not  reply  because  as  Mrs.  Senlake  threw  open  the  door 
in  dismissal,  a  man  who  had  evidently  been  about  to  knock 
entered  boisterously. 

It  was  Reggie. 

He  failed  to  observe  the  slim  girl  standing  within  the  room, 
her  face  in  shadow;  he  gathered  Sonia  to  him  in  a  passionate 
embrace.  All  at  once  he  exclaimed,  and  Mrs.  Senlake,  freeing 
herself  said,  not  angrily: 

"You  silly  boy!  Haven't  I  told  you  not  to  be  so  impatient? 
And  I  don't  care  to  be  kissed  in  front  of  a  shopgirl." 

She  stopped  and  looked  with  a  new  sharp  intensity  from 
him  to  Dolf.  Dolf's  bitter  laugh  broke  the  silence. 


ioo  DOLF 

"You— and  her!" 

"Dolf,  I— I—" 

"You  and  her!"  repeated  Dolf. 

"Reggie!"  rang  out  Sonia's  voice  raucously.  But  the  cry 
did  not  make  Reggie  turn  wholly  from  his  horrified  and  scar- 
let-faced scrutiny  of  Dolf.  And  Sonia  knew  that  it  was  the 
girl,  not  the  woman,  who  held  his  alarmed  desire, — the  one 
with  life  before  her,  not  the  one  with  life  already  half 
squandered. 

"Dolf!"  he  cried  again  beseechingly.  But  Dolf  looked  at 
him  from  eyes  whose  hue  was  now  the  colour  of  drawn  steel, 
and  said  slowly: 

"You  know  me.  You  know  I  will  never  see  you  nor  speak 
to  you  again,"  and  went  out. 

Mrs.  Senlake,  standing  for  a  moment  in  thought,  went  swiftly 
to  the  telephone  and  called  a  number. 

"Is  that  Mr.  Hopkins?  You  remember  I  suggested  a  shop 
in  Sloane  Street — Fleurette — to  dress  your  new  Revue?  Well, 
I  was  wrong.  They  are  hopeless.  I  wouldn't  answer  for  the 
consequences  if  you  trust  them." 

"Ah!"  replied  the  voice  of  Mr.  Hopkins.  "Thank  you  for 
telling  me,  I'll  remember." 

Sonia  turned  peevishly  to  Reggie  and  her  eyes  smouldered. 

"Thank  God  we're  not  bath  fools,"  she  said  bitterly.  "At 
least  I  understand  revenge!" 

As  she  went  blindly  along  the  street  Dolf's  brain  fought 
through  a  tangled  maze  of  emotions. 

"Why  not  try  to  make  Guy  forget?  Perhaps  it  would  make 
me  forget,  too.  Let  her  have  Reggie  Mayne,  but  not  both. 
Why  should  she  have  both?  She  took  a  man  from  me,  and 
I'll  take  one  from  her.  And  I'll  make  him  forget.  God  made 
me  pretty  enough!  He  shall  take  me  to  dinner  in  a  private 
room  and  then  he  will  kiss  me  and  then — Though  I've  never 
given  that  to  a  man,  I'll  give  it  to  him.  Then  perhaps  we'll 
both  forget." 


DOLF  1 01 

When  she  had  made  her  opportunity  and  the  waiter  flitted 
discreetly  from  view,  closing  the  door  with  accentuated  care, 
Senlake  put  his  restless,  wandering  thoughts  into  words,  drop- 
ping the  mask  of  polite  nonsense  he  had  worn  hitherto. 

"My  dear,  what's  the  matter?  For  heaven's  sake  tell  me. 
You  look  like  a  haunted  person,  your  nerves  are  all  to  bits, 
and  you  don't  know  what  you're  saying  or  why." 

Dolf  stared  at  him  with  a  steady  intensity  that  seemed  to 
look  straight  into  his  soul.  Her  eyes  shone  twice  their  normal 
size,  her  cheeks  were  flushed  beneath  their  added  pink,  her 
ringers  crumbled  bread  restlessly. 

She  laughed.    The  harshness  of  the  sound  roused  him. 

"Have  you  and  Reggie  quarrelled?" 

"Guy,  not  Reggie  and  I,  please!  Never  again.  That's  off 
forever."  She  threw  at  him  the  mocking  ghost  of  a  smile, 
stretched  across  the  table  and  took  his  hands.  Her  frock  re- 
vealed the  satin  fairness  of  throat  and  shoulders,  he  could 
see  a  pulse  throbbing  at  the  base  of  her  neck  and  her  breath 
came  in  distressed  sobs. 

"Dolf!     Dear  little  Dolf!"  he  whispered  compassionately. 

"So  now  you  see  I'm  free,  Guy,  free  to  do  as  I  like." 

"And  the  first  thing  you  did  was  to  come  to  me."  He  leaned 
toward  her  and  in  his  eyes,  that  held  pity  and  friendship  alone, 
she  read  that  her  mad  impulse  was  not  to  be  realised  for  he 
did  not  know  what  she  had  meant;  he  did  not  even  think  of 
her  in  that  way — a  way  that  now  suddenly  horrified  her. 

She  saw,  after  all,  that  without  love  nothing  counts. 

How  far  he  was  from  loving  her! 

Again  hate  for  his  wife  rose  in  her.  Suddenly  she  knew 
that  she  must  go  home,  that  Guy  was  not  the  companion  she 
should  have  chosen  for  to-night,  that  she  must  be  alone  to 
break  or  to  endure,  as  the  fates  might  decree.  So,  since  she 
begged  him,  he  took  her  home  and  left  her  at  the  threshold, 
very  pale  and  very  sad. 

In  the  flat  she  found  Netta  staring  into  the  fire,  a  little 


102  DOLF 

heap  of  cigarette  ends  in  an  ash-tray  beside  her,  gloom 
stamped  on  her  handsome  face. 

"Hullo!"  she  said  drily.  "Hope  you've  had  a  good  time. 
As  a  business  we're  down  and  out.  You  know  that  contract 
for  Hopkins  to  dress  a  revue?  Well,  it's  a  wash-out.  We 
shall  have  to  close  down,  face  the  world  anew,  my  dearie, 
find  another  gold  mine,  or  a  man  or  something." 

Dolf  stared  a  moment,  stunned  by  the  unexpected  new 
blow.  Then  she  laughed  unnaturally. 

"Only  the  other  day  I  had  to  chuck  Reggie.  And  now  we've 
got  to  shut  up  shop.  Wouldn't  it  be  easier  just  to  drown?" 

That  night  she  wondered  why  she  had  been  such  a  fool  as 
to  go  to  Guy's  wife.  It  was  none  of  her  business,  and  if  Guy 
chose  to  wreck  his  life  for  another  woman  why  should  she 
care?  Again  she  pictured  the  luxurious  house  and  its  beauti- 
ful mistress  and  hated  her  with  blind  hatred. 

But  youth  is  elastic.  In  the  morning  she  felt  a  wonderful 
sensation  of  freedom.  Reggie  and  that  woman  meant  nothing 
to  her.  Her  irritation  at  Senlake  was  gone,  too.  For  the  fight- 
ing spirit  was  in  her  again,  the  gambling  spirit.  She  wanted  to 
go  to  Senlake  and  say,  "Well,  I've  been  jilted,  too,  you  see, 
but  I'm  going  to  win  just  the  same.  And  you,  also,  you  and 
I  both."  She  felt  that  she  could  endue  him  with  her  spirit  and 
that  together  they  would  ride  down  their  enemies. 

She  came  in  to  breakfast  smiling. 

"Netta,  dear,  last  night  I  was  talking  about  drowning,  but 
that's  all  over.  One  can't  go  down  for  ever  and  ever,  can  one? 
Directly  you  touch  bottom  you  begin  to  come  up  again." 

"Quite  sure  you  don't  care  either  way?"  asked  Netta.  Dolf 
laughed,  the  blue  eyes  sane  again,  her  chin  set  at  a  fighting  tilt. 

"Not  so  much  as  you  could  put  on  a  pin's  point.  Give  me 
a  cigarette.  We're  not  going  to  let  Fleurette  die.  Let's  make 
one  more  effort.'' 

Netta  considered  this  challenge  glumly. 

"I'd  about  made  up  my  mind  to  try  the  stage  again.    I 


DOLF  103 

was  on  once — and  I  know  a  man"  (she  always  knew  a  man) — 
"who  can  work  it  for  me.  They  like  girls  who  can  wear  clothes 
properly.  I  thought  you'd  like  a  try  too." 

"It  sounds  all  right  if  we  can't  succeed  with  Fleurette,"  Dolf 
answered  judicially.  "But  Fleurette' s  got  to  have  another 
chance.  I'm  fond  of  her,  and  so  are  you.  She's  like  us, 
struggling  to  fight  against  odds.  Let's  stick  at  it  another 
month." 

So  won  over  by  the  sheer  spirit  of  fight  and  hope,  Netta 
yielded. 

With  new  plans  and  construction  it  was  a  busy  day.  But 
not  for  a  moment  did  Dolf  lose  Senlake  from  her  thoughts  and 
at  five  that  afternoon  she  telephoned  to  him. 

She  hung  up  the  receiver  dazed,  stricken.  According  to  his 
landlady  he  had  once  more  disappeared. 

"I  don't  see  that  I  need  worry  any  more  about  him,"  Dolf 
said  one  day  when  Netta  had  mentioned  Senlake  about  a 
month  after  his  disappearance. 

"Didn't  know  you  ever  did  worry  about  him." 

"I  didn't  mean  worry,  I  meant  wonder,"  Dolf  corrected  pet- 
tishly. "Worry — rather  not!  He's  the  sort  who  will  go  his 
own  way  no  matter  what  happens,  so  worrying  would  be  foolish 
even  if  I  cared  enough." 

"Then  you  don't  think  he'll  turn  up  again?" 

"I  just  don't  think,  I  tell  you.  Heavens,  Netta,  can't  you 
find  something  more  interesting  to  talk  about?" 

Netta  watched  her  a  moment  through  cigarette  smoke. 

"Oh,  all  right.    Let's  talk  about  Fleurette." 

"Oh,  don't!"  cried  Dolf.  "Try  as  we  may  Fleurette' s  prac- 
tically dead." 

"Well,  Dolf,  dear"  (Netta's  "dear"  had  a  cat-like  sound,  as 
if  it  covered  a  claw),  "it  isn't  my  fault  exactly.  You  were 
keen  on  keeping  on  when  I  was  ready  to  stop.  And  you 
were  going  to  help  so  much ;  in  fact,  /  was  only  to  assist  you. 


104  DOLF 

But  I  can't  see  that  you've  made  much  of  a  success  after  all.  I 
did  most  of  it — even  though  I  knew  it  was  hopeless." 

"You  needn't  rub  it  in,"  complained  Dolf.  But  when  Netta, 
her  vital  young  body  wearied  for  once  had  gone  to  bed,  Dolf 
came  to  her. 

"I  was  horrid,  Netta.  And  I've  been  horrid  about  Fleurette, 
too.  I'm  a  little  beast.  But  give  me  a  chance  to  make  up. 
I'll  work  just  as  I  meant  to  a  month  ago.  Shall  I?" 

"I  haven't  any  faith  in  it,"  Netta  objected,  but,  as  always 
happened  when  Dolf  coaxed,  she  gave  in. 

Nevertheless  the  end  of  the  next  fortnight  found  Fleurette 
moribund.  Something  was  subtly  wrong  with  her,  some  vague 
disease  of  which  she  was  dying  because,  like  the  lady  of  Sha- 
lott,  a  curse  had  come  upon  her.  And  one  night  they  faced 
the  fact,  let  their  ears  hear  the  death-rattle  and  braced  them- 
selves for  the  funeral.  It  was  merely  a  matter  of  seeing  it 
through  without  owing  the  undertaker. 

"I'm  glad  it's  over,"  sighed  Netta  as  she  (figuratively)  filled 
in  the  grave  and  came  away. 

"Me,  too."  Dolf  stared  at  the  rug.  "But  it  isn't  your 
fault.  I  tried  hard  but  something  was  wrong  with  me.  I  s'pose 
I  was  a  little  in  love  with  Senlake.  I  didn't  realize  it,  but  I've 
begun  to  believe  I  was." 

"And  is  it  all  over  now?"  Netta  asked  after  a  pause,  turn- 
ing away. 

Dolf  laughed.  "He's  gone  out  of  my  life  for  good,  my  dear. 
Don't  make  any  mistake  about  that." 

"But  he  wasn't  in  it  for  bad?"  murmured  Netta. 

"No.  But  I  must — I  mean,  I  have  forgotten  him.  His 
friendship  was  dear  and  sweet,  but  I'm  young  and  there  must 
be  some  happiness  coming  to  me.  You  wouldn't  keep  up  a 
hopeless  attachment,  would  you?" 

"Of  course  not,"  said  Netta  enigmatically. 

"Well,  I'm  sensible,  too.  So  let's  face  the  future  and  see 
what's  to  be  done.  I  suppose  you'll  go  on  the  stage?" 


DOLF  105 

Netta  nodded.  A  faint  exhilaration  seemed  to  emanate  from 
her.  "Why  not  come,  too?  It's  looks  that  count  most,  and 
you've  got  them." 

"Anything  to  earn  a  living.  I  can't  go  back,  I  must  go  for- 
ward. I'd  rather  die  than  be  back  at  home,  and  anyway  Dad 
wouldn't  have  me.  Auntie  wouldn't  help  me  any  more  either. 
She  hated  my  leaving  her  to  go  and  live  with  you." 

"Leave  it  to  me,"  came  laconically  from  Netta. 

A  girl  of  Dolf's  type  being  merely  a  bubble  on  the  face  of 
the  waters,  she  found  herself  adrift  from  shadow  to  sunlight 
with  complete  lack  of  reason  or  motive.  Thus  as  the  months 
passed,  Netta's  theatrical  venture  spun  Fortune's  wheel  with 
amazing  results. 

Within  the  respectable  precincts  of  the  Albert  Hall — dis- 
guised for  the  occasion  much  as  if  a  hashish-inspired  district  vis- 
itor should  paint  her  godly  face  and  reveal  her  form  beyond 
the  limits  of  decorum — hundreds  of  young  and  lovely  women 
offered  sacrifice  to  Aphrodite  in  the  modern  fashion.  The  Stage 
and  Studio  Fancy  Dress  Ball  danced  along  its  primrose  path. 
The  string  band  of  the  Royal  Artillery  gingered  the  far  from 
reluctant  emotions  of  the  revellers,  expressed  in  the  angular 
unrhythmic  shuffling  of  to-day's  dances. 

The  tall  man  with  a  brown,  lean  face,  disguised  as  a  Penin- 
sular Guardsman,  smiled  patiently  at  Netta  Blatchley,  now 
of  the  Summerhouse  Theatre,  one-fifth  of  her  comeliness  veiled 
by  something  intended  to  represent  an  orchid.  The  smile 
crumpled  the  sun-wrinkles  at  the  corners  of  his  eyelids  with- 
out modifying  greatly  a  stem  mouth  and  sun-faded  hazel  eyes. 

"You're  very  cruel,  aren't  you?"  he  said  lazily.  "You  don't 
love  me  and  you  won't  stay  with  me  all  this  evening  to  save  me 
from  the  wild  women.  That  was  the  understanding  on  which 
I  came.  I  do  think  you  ought  to  provide  a  substitute,  don't 
you?  A  comparative  stranger  needs  a  nurse  of  some  sort  at 
these  orgies.  What  about  it?" 

"I  should  worry!"  retorted  Netta  pertly,  fretting  one  rest- 


io6  DOLF 

less  foot  on  the  shimmering  floor.  "I  must  stick  to  Roddy 
this  evening,  old  thing.  He's  going  to  give  me  a  part,  I  don't 
think,  this  year,  some  time,  never.  I'm  a  business  girl." 

"I  gave  you  a  beautiful  dinner,  too,  and  we  travelled  here 
in  the  Rolls.  I  insist  on  being  found  someone  to  love.  You 
know  thousands  of  lovely  things.  Surely  I  can  have  just  a 
little  one?" 

Netta  waved  imperiously  towards  a  curtained  entrance. 

"Dolf,"  she  commanded,  "come  here,  I  want  you.  Sir  Henry 
Creagh — Miss  Farmer.  He's  worth  millions  and  runs  a  Rolls- 
Royce.  Be  good.  Cheerio!  There's  Roddy!" 

She  scampered  away  and  left  them. 

Sir  Henry  gazed  down  thoughtfully  at  Dolf.  She  wore  a 
thin  rose-silk  pyjama  coat  open  at  the  throat,  with  shorts  to 
match.  Her  ankles  and  feet  would  have  melted  the  heart  of  a 
stone  image.  She  said  nothing,  letting  him  gaze. 

"They  say  'he  who  hesitates  is  lost,'  but  the  band  is  playing 
a  hesitation  waltz.  Shall  we?"  murmured  Sir  Henry  at  last 
and  drew  her  away. 

Most  men's  lives  are  punctuated  by  women,  among  whom 
the  exclamation  marks  predominate.  Nevertheless  there  occurs 
once  or  twice  in  a  lifetime  the  unsought,  imperious  full  stop 
that  puts  everything  else  out  of  mind  for  the  time  being.  When 
Sir  Henry  led  Dolf  out  among  the  shuffling  multitude  on  the 
shimmering  floor  he  knew  neither  the  hour  nor  the  day,  heat 
nor  cold,  joy  nor  sorrow.  A  bitter-sweet  thrill  tingled  through 
his  veins  akin  to  the  subtle  beginning  of  intoxication.  There 
was  no  need  to  explain  or  excuse  anything.  They  were  neither 
strangers  nor  friends.  Drifting  together  by  chance  they  had 
become,  temporarily  at  any  rate,  the  perfect  complement  of 
each  other.  He  looked  deep  into  her  eyes  and  they  met  his 
openly,  fearlessly.  She  smiled  very  faintly  and  her  lips  shaped 
themselves  instinctively  to  meet  his.  There  were  madness, 
welcome,  invitation  in  the  light  clasp  of  her  fingers. 

Sir  Henry  was  thirty-nine.    He  had  met  life  eye  to  eye  in 


DOLF  107 

most  corners  of  the  world  and  life  had  taught  him  many  things. 
In  the  dry  hostility  of  the  desert,  in  the  eerie  stillness  and 
majesty  of  the  bush  he  knew  a  man  shall  either  seize  fate  by 
the  throat  and  crush  her,  or  take  the  wages  of  cowardice  and 
sin,  which  is  death.  But  when  life  is  a  dalliance  of  hanging 
rose-gardens,  sunlight  and  fortunate  streams,  then  on  such 
streams  a  man  may  take  in  the  idle  sail,  ship  the  unnecessary 
oar,  and  drift  serenely  towards  Asgard,  or  Mogador. 

After  the  eleventh  cycle  of  the  millennium  they  found  them- 
selves sitting  in  his  box.  Dolf  absorbed  the  last  spoonful  of  a 
pink  ice  luxuriously.  Sir  Henry  took  away  the  plate,  held 
Dolf's  face  between  his  two  hands  and  kissed  her  slowly. 

"Well?"  he  said  at  last. 

"I  don't  know.  It  doesn't  matter,  does  it?  We're  just 
happy,"  she  answered. 

Hearing  her  voice  for  the  first  time  he  thanked  God  it 
matched  the  rest  of  her.  It  might  have  been  a  Cockney  voice, 
a  provincial  voice.  She  might  even  have  dropped  her  aitches. 

"Who  are  you,  Dolf?  Where  do  you  come  from?  What 
do  you  do?  How  can  we  escape?"  he  went  on  swiftly,  authori- 
tatively. He  seemed  to  take  her  wishes  for  granted. 

She  sighed  and  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"I  work.  Netta  and  I  had  a  shop — since  then  I've  been  in 
another — but  now  I  think  I'm  going  on  the  stage.  Netta  can 
get  me  on." 

"And  beyond  that,  I  s'pose  there  are  men?" 

Dolf  smiled  up  at  him  with  a  hint  of  devil  in  her  eyes. 

"There  always  are,  aren't  there?  What  do  you  expect? 
One  can't  afford  one's  own  frocks  and  dinners  and  things.  You 
needn't  be  jealous — there  aren't  any  very  serious  men.  They 
just  drift  in  and  out  of  life.  I'm  only  twenty  and  I  can't  set- 
tle— oh,  don't,  you're  hurting!" 

He  had  gripped  her  shoulders  and  drawn  her  to  him.  She 
pushed  the  pyjama  coat  on  one  side  and  showed  him  reproach- 
fully three  red  fingerprints  on  the  white  skin. 


io8  DOLF 

"Dolf,"  said  Sir  Henry  desperately,  "I  want  you.  I've  just 
got  to  have  you.  Do  you  understand?" 

"I  understand  perfectly,"  she  said,  with  a  calm  certainty 
that  brought  the  blood  into  his  tanned  face.  "You  do  want 
me  and  you  don't  want  to  marry  me.  All  the  nice  men  of  your 
class  are  the  same.  Isn't  it  unfortunate?" 

Try  as  he  would  he  could  think  of  no  repty. 

"I  love  your  kind  of  man  and  my  own  kind  are  such  pigs. 
Life's  very  difficult,  isn't  it?" 

"For  God's  sake,  don't!"  murmured  Sir  Henry.  "You're 
quite  right!  I  shall  never  marry.  What  are  we  to  do,  Dolf? 
Do  you  remember  our  dance?  Has  it  got  to  end  there?  Can't 
you — think  of  any  way  .  .  .?" 

His  voice  dwindled  into  silence.  He  appeared  to  himself  to 
be  asking  impossible  questions. 

"How  was  it  you  came  straight  to  me?"  he  went  on. 

"You  must  have  any  quantity  of  dancing  partners." 

"Just  Netta.  She  looks  after  me.  She  couldn't  dance  with 
you  to-night.  I  kept  myself  free  to  help  her  out." 

Sir  Henry  squared  his  broad  shoulders. 

"Come  away.  We  can't  talk  here.  I  hate  these  jamborees. 
Will  you?" 

She  sighed  faintly,  realising  the  inevitable. 

"My  cloak,"  she  murmured.    "In  five  minutes,  if  you  like." 

The  Rolls-Royce  whirred  softly  through  the  soft  darkness 
to  his  rooms  in  Half  Moon  Street.  He  gave  a  quiet  order  to 
the  driver  and  led  Dolf  into  a  man's  perfect,  impersonal  sit- 
ting-room with  deep  chairs,  a  great  lion  skin  on  the  hearth,  ex- 
pensive Bond  Street  toys  on  the  writing-table.  He  rang,  and 
an  impassive  valet  came  bringing  whisky  and  soda.  Sir  Henry 
commanded  a  small  table  and  supper  for  two. 

When  Dolf  had  eaten  delicately  and  sipped  her  champagne 
with  the  fastidious  gourmandise  of  a  little  cat  lapping  new 
cream,  he  put  her  in  a  big  chair  by  the  fire,  lighted  her  ciga- 
rette and  stood  looking  down  at  her. 


DOLF  109' 

"Dolf,  I'm  going  away.  I'm  going  to  Africa  in  my  yacht. 
I  want  you  to  come  too." 

She  shook  her  head  slowly. 

"I  can't.  I  don't  do  those  things.  You  don't  quite  under- 
stand. It  isn't  much  to  you,  but  to  a  girl  it's  a  great  deal — 
all  she  has.  I'm  sorry.  I'd  love  it — a  yacht,  and  Africa.  You 
are  lucky,  aren't  you?" 

He  smiled  at  her  a  little.  She  lay  back  perfectly  at  rest 
in  the  great  chair,  a  slender  almost  boyish  figure,  and  yet  so 
entirely  girl.  An  idea  dawned  in  his  brain. 

"Dolf,  I'll  make  a  bargain  with  you.  You  shall  come  to 
Africa  as  my  secretary.  You  shall  have  an  elderly,  most  re- 
spectable lady  as  a  chaperon.  You  shall  be  treated  exactly  as 
if  you  were  my  daughter  or  sister,  and  I  give  you  my  word, 
which  I've  never  broken,  that  nothing  shall  ever  happen  which 
you'd  rather  not.  You  shall  see  the  sort  of  life  I  could  give 
you  for — oh,  several  years,  probably,  and  make  up  your  mind 
when  we  return  to  England.  If  you  still  feel  you'd  rather 
not,  we'll  part  friends.  If  you  alter  your  mind,  why  the 
world  will  be  yours  to  choose  from,  and  I'm  considered  a 
reasonably  amusing  person.  I  make  only  one  condition:  while 
you're  with  me,  either  on  this  trial  trip  or — afterwards — you 
are  not  to  have  any  love  affair  with  anyone  else.  If  you  do, 
our  arrangements  cease  from  that  moment,  wherever  we  are. 
How  do  you  like  my  idea?" 

Dolf  flicked  cigarette  ash  into  the  tray  at  her  elbow  and 
dreamed.  A  cinema  film  was  running  before  her  mind's  eye. 
On  the  one  hand  work  in  a  shop  or  a  theatre,  the  attentions  of 
all  sorts  of  men,  mostly  nasty,  a  hand  to  mouth  existence, 
a  battle  of  wits.  On  the  other,  comfort,  luxury,  charm,  pro- 
tection. For  a  while  she  could  be  even  as  one  of  his  class. 
There  was  every  safeguard;  he  was  not  the  kind  to  break  his 
word.  Dolf  knew  men  well  enough  to  be  sure.  And  in  the  last 
event  the  choice  lay  with  her.  A  yacht  and  Africa,  with  all 


no  DOLF 

to  gain  and  nothing  to  lose.  Netta  would  never  hesitate.  Why 
should  she? 

She  raised  her  eyes  to  him  and  smiled. 

"I  think  I'll  accept.  You're  an  awful  dear  to  ask  me.  I 
shall  never  change  my  mind,  but  if  you  care  to  risk  giving 
something  for  nothing  I'd  love  to  go  with  you.  Tell  me  what 
I'm  to  do." 

"I'll  take  you  home  and  fix  it  up  to-morrow.  We've  a  month 
to  spare;  you'd  better  have  some  sort  of  secretarial  training 
for  the  sake  of  appearances,  and  learn  to  ride.  And  there's 
your  kit  to  get,  and  your  chaperon — dear  old  lady!  Dine 
here  to-morrow  and  I'll  tell  you  details.  It's  your  bedtime 
now." 

He  lifted  her  to  her  feet,  kissed  her,  folded  the  cloak  about 
her,  and  took  her  back  to  Netta's  flat.  At  four  a.m.,  Netta 
returned  to  find  Dolf  in  bed  wide-eyed. 

"Got  my  contract  out  of  Roddy,"  yawned  Netta,  sinking 
rather  wearily  on  the  bed.  "I  had  to  promise  goodness  knows 
what,  but  it'll  all  come  right  in  the  end,  darling.  Where  the 
blue  blazes  did  you  get  to  with  Henry?" 

"Nothing  like  so  far  as  I  shall  get!    Oh,  Netta " 

She  told  her  fairy  tale  with  bright  excited  eyes.  Netta  lis- 
tened all  amazement,  scepticism,  finally  pure  envy. 

"My  God!"  she  exclaimed,  "you  don't  half  have  luck,  do 
you?  Here  I  am  gambling  week-ends  at  Brighton — on  paper 
at  any  rate — for  a  measly  tenner  a  week,  and  you  get  yachts 
and  Cook's  tours  for  nothing,  and  a  chaperon  thrown  in. 
I  can  guess  what  you'll  say  to  him  at  the  end  of  the  trip.  You 
needn't  offer  a  prize." 

Dolf  played  abstractedly  with  the  ribbon  at  the  end  of  one 
long  plait. 

"Can  you?"  she  murmured.    "I  wonder?" 

Another  prospective  traveller  about  this  time  was  Tom 
Wainwright. 

Having  prospered  in  the  grocery  trade  to  such  an  extent  that 


DOLF  m 

he  now  had  shops  in  London,  he  felt  that  a  fresh  impetus  to 
his  rapid  rise  would  be  given  by  a  journey  to  the  sources  of 
some  of  his  supplies.  He  could  leave  in  charge  a  capable  re- 
liable partner  and  his  mind  would  be  free  to  enjoy  a  voyage  in 
South  Africa. 

Tom  knew  that  a  man  aiming  at  the  sort  of  future  he  had 
in  mind  must  acquire  other  things  than  money,  and  that  travel 
broadens  the  mind.  So  he  was  quite  happy  to  combine  busi- 
ness and  pleasure,  a  deal  on  the  spot  and  a  holiday  trip. 

The  steam  yacht  Fragoletta,  three  thousand  tons,  crept  dain- 
tily past  the  steamer  on  the  rocks,  past  the  white  lighthouse 
against  the  green  shore,  into  Free  Town  harbour.  The  fairy 
tale  had  begun. 

Dolf  stood  beside  Sir  Henry  beneath  the  awning  aft,  her  eyes 
jewelled  with  eagerness,  a  slender  figure  in  white  linen  and  pith 
hat.  It  was  six-thirty  a.  m.  in  the  tropics,  with  the  just  risen 
sun  gilding  an  unflecked  sea  and  sky.  Beyond  towered  the 
saw-backed  mass  of  the  Sierra  Leone ;  in  the  air  hung  the  begin- 
nings of  moist,  breathless  heat.  Past  the  eternal  bush-fringed 
shore  of  Africa  they  crawled  dead  slow  to  their  anchorage  off 
a  scattered  town  such  as  Dolf  had  never  seen,  with  a  red  brick 
incongruous  English-looking  church  in  the  foreground. 

"The  G.  O.  C.'s  quite  an  old  pal  of  mine  and  so's  the  Gover- 
nor. I  asked  them  to  dine  by  wireless,"  said  Sir  Henry  lazily. 
"They'll  come  fast  enough  because  a  real  dinner  on  a  ship's 
something  to  pray  for  in  these  ports.  There's  the  Port  Medi- 
cal Officer  in  his  launch,  and  somebody  from  the  Staff  won't 
be  far  behind.  We'll  give  him  breakfast,  Dolf.  He'll  amuse 
you." 

A  dilapidated  launch  manned  by  gentlemen  of  colour  in  hap- 
hazard costumes  churned  alongside,  followed  closely  by  a  motor 
boat.  Dolf  ran  eagerly  to  the  head  of  the  accommodation 
ladder.  Sir  Henry,  who  had  been  in  the  tropics  before,  walked 
slowly  after  her. 

Up  the  ladder  toiled  a  stout  man  in  a  flannel  shirt  and  drill 


H2  DOLF 

shorts  with  a  Sam  Brown  belt  over  the  shirt  and  a  Wolseley 
helmet  on  his  head.  He  nodded  to  the  First  Officer  waiting  to 
receive  him,  and  the  ship's  doctor.  Sir  Henry  held  out  a  wel- 
coming hand. 

"We've  a  clean  sheet.  Come  and  have  breakfast,"  he  said 
cheerfully.  "Miss  Farmer,  this  is  Major " 

"Baines,"  supplemented  the  stout  person.  "And  here  we 
have  my  young  friend  Crowther,  the  Military  Landing  Offi- 
cer, coming  over  the  side."  He  indicated  a  ginger-haired  lieu- 
tenant dressed  in  the  prevailing  garb,  who  advanced  towards 
them,  staring  fixedly  at  Dolf,  the  first  pretty  girl  he  had  seen 
for  a  year.  "He  might  have  breakfast,  too,  I  think,  speaking 
professionally.  Not  a  bad  lad  on  the  whole." 

"Yes,  do  let's  ask  him,"  murmured  Dolf.  "There  are  eggs 
and  bacon  and  fish  and  omelette  and  iced  fruit  and  porridge. 
I'm  sure  you're  both  hungry." 

"Good  God!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Crowther  aloud  in  simple  awe. 
"Served  on  real  plates  and  table  cloths  just  like  home,  I  s'pose. 
Thanks,  most  awfully!" 

Sir  Henry,  who  knew  his  Africa,  led  the  strangers  away  and 
made  them  free  of  Roman  baths  in  white-tiled  bathrooms. 
They  issued  forth  joyfully  to  breakfast,  and  Dolf,  almost  ma- 
ternal in  her  sympathy  for  these  poor  exiles,  flirted  delicately 
with  both.  Before  she  quite  realised  it  she  had  accepted  an 
invitation  to  tea  at  the  barracks,  the  use  of  a  hammock  and 
porters  for  her  visits  ashore,  and  the  services  of  a  guide  in  the 
person  of  Mr.  Crowther. 

"Otherwise,"  he  explained  earnestly,  "you'll  be  done  in  the 
eye  by  these  curio  fellers.  Pure  thieves,  every  one  of  them." 

Sir  Henry,  quiet,  unobtrusive,  watched  from  the  background, 
between  snatches  of  male  converse  with  the  Major.  He  saw 
the  magic  of  his  world  working  on  Dolf,  while  she  entertained, 
with  marvellous  adaptability,  these  men  not  of  her  own  stratum 
in  life.  He  saw  her  delight  in  the  worship  of  males  cut  off 
from  their  own  womankind. 


DOLF  113 

And  Mrs.  Strangeways,  the  chaperon,  slept  on. 

"Then  we'll  chuck  the  book  to-day  and  go  exploring,"  Ijje  put 
in  casually.  It  was  a  pleasant  fiction  that  Dolf  assisted  him 
with  the  writing  of  a  book  of  travel.  "Send  down  those  ham- 
mocks about  half-past  eight,  will  you,  Crowther?  It'll  be  so 
fiendishly  hot  later.  And  you'll  both  dine  on  board  to-night, 
of  course?  The  Governor's  coming.  The  G.  O.  C.  seems  to 
be  up-country." 

"Well,  Dolf?"  he  queried  in  the  smoking-room  after  the 
guests  had  gone.  "Happy?  Is  it  all  very  exciting?" 

She  moved  across  and  sat  on  the  arm  of  his  chair. 

"  'Course!  You  are  a  dear  to  me,  Henry.  And  how  those  poor 
boys  gape  at  a  girl,  don't  they?" 

"So  would  you  if  you  were  a  man  and  hadn't  seen  one  for 
ages." 

She  ran  her  fingers  lightly  through  his  hair  and  drew  up  a 
chair  for  herself. 

"And  to-night  there'll  be  the  Governor,  and  I  shall  wear  a 
Doucet  dinner  gown." 

"And  a  colonel  and  the  senior  naval  officer  of  the  station, 
and  a  motley  selection  of  junior  officers  and  only  Mrs.  Strange- 
ways  to  share  them  with.  She's  hardly  a  rival.  Frankly,  Dolf, 
I  envy  you!" 

A  day  later  Fragoletta  steamed  out  of  harbour;  the  scalps 
of  the  Governor,  the  senior  naval  officer  and  the  rest  dangled 
at  Dolf's  slender  waist;  the  band  of  H.  M.  S.  Nonesuch  played 
them  out  to  the  tune  of  "We'll  All  Go  the  Same  Way  Home" 
and  the  Governor  wirelessed  "Good  luck  and  bon  voyage!" 
And  Fragoletta's  clipper  bow  headed  for  the  Cape. 

Sir  Henry  continued  to  behave  with  the  perfection  of  his 
training.  In  the  golden  early  dawn,  in  the  noontide  heat,  in 
the  sheer  bewitching  whiteness  of  the  tropic  moonlight  when 
they  had  the  deck  to  themselves,  excepting  the  officer  of  the 
watch  high  and  remote  on  the  bridge,  he  was  kind,  attentive, 


DOLF 

amusing — little  more.  Except  that  he  kissed  her  good-night 
a  shade  more  affectionately,  he  might  have  been  her  brother. 

Two  days  out  from  Free  Town  they  sat  side  by  side  on 
deck  after  dinner  in  the  cane  lounges  of  the  East.  Not  a  sound 
broke  the  stillness  except  the  rush  of  water  past  the  ship  and 
the  soft  warm  wind  in  the  shrouds  and  funnel  stays.  Dolf  sat 
up  quickly,  the  light  wrap  falling  from  her  bare  shoulders  and 
leaned  towards  him. 

"Henry,  are  you  sorry  I  came?" 

He  took  the  cigar  out  of  his  mouth  and  smiled  at  her  in 
the  moonlight. 

"You  wouldn't  be  here  if  I  were,  Dolf.    Why?" 

"Do  you  remember  the  dance  when  we  met?  Do  you  re- 
member kissing  me?  Well,  you  never  kiss  me  now — like  that. 
And  I'm  not  greedy.  I  don't  want  to  take  everything  and 
give  nothing.  I — I  think  I  want  to  be  kissed.  It's  lonely,  and 
there's  the  moon  .  .  ." 

He  moved  restlessly  in  his  chair. 

"I  want  everything  or  nothing.  As  you  say,  there's  a  moon 
— a  white  moon,  very  different  from  the  moon  at  home.  You 
daren't  begin  in  this  moonlight  and  these  latitudes  if  there 
are  to  be  limitations,  Dolf,  dear.  A  man's  only  flesh  and 
blood,  and  I  never  break  my  word." 

She  turned  her  face  away. 

"If  you  were  I,  quite  alone  in  the  world,  in  a  ship  with  a  man 
who  gave  you  everything  and  didn't  want  you,  and  would 

rather  break  your  heart  than  risk  breaking  his  word "  she 

said  very  sadly.  "Besides,  if  I  can  trust  you,  and  myself,  why 
should  you  hesitate?  I've  everything  to  lose  and  at  the  worst 
you've  everything  to  gain.  You  don't  need  to  be  so  very 
brave,  do  you,  Henry?" 

She  saw  the  jaw-muscle  in  his  thin,  tanned  face  quiver  and 
define  itself  tensely  for  a  moment.  The  next  she  was  in  his 
arms,  gathered  up,  crushed  against  his  heart,  his  mouth  on 
hers  in  kisses  such  as  she  had  never  known.  She  put  both 


DOLF  115 

hands  against  his  shoulders  and  strove  to  release  herself.  Then 
the  pain  of  her  bruised  mouth,  the  madness  of  the  moonlight, 
the  soft  mystery  of  the  tropic  night  all  blended  into  a  sweet 
agony  that  left  her  defenceless,  acquiescent,  hungry  for  she 
knew  not  what. 

Suddenly  two  arms  of  steel  lifted  her  clear  and  set  her  on  her 
feet  upon  the  deck,  trembling,  on  fire,  every  pulse  leaping. 

"So  now  you  can  realise,"  came  in  his  clear,  slow  tones, 
"I  know  the  climate,  the  circumstances  and  our  limitations  bet- 
ter than  you.  For  God's  sake,  don't  tempt  me  again,  Dolf. 
I  can't  stand  it." 

He  lit  another  cigar  a  little  unsteadily.  She  stood  trembling 
and  tears  gathered  in  her  eyes. 

"You  needn't  despise  me  quite  so  openly,"  said  her  choked 
voice.  In  an  instant  he  had  drawn  her  against  his  heart,  caress- 
ing her  hair,  infinitely  protecting. 

"Dolf,  Dolf,  darling,  don't.  You  know  I  love  you — I  do 
love  you.  Kiss  me  good-night  and  forgive  me.  Please,  Dolf. 
Don't  be  so  unhappy,  poor  mite.  If  I  hadn't  loved  you  so  it 
wouldn't  have  happened.  Look  at  me!" 

He  lifted  her  face  and  kissed  the  tear-wet  eyes.  A  shaky 
smile  played  round  the  corners  of  her  mouth. 

"I  had  to.  You  were  so  cold — and  polite — and  respectable," 
she  murmured,  kissed  him  once,  passionately,  and  fled  away  to 
her  cabin. 

Love's  pilgrimage  in  the  fulness  of  Time,  brought  them  to 
Cape  Town.  Here  also  Dolf  learnt  many  things  concerning  a 
social  world  not  hers.  She  lived  through  shot-silken  days  of  hard 
bright  sunlight,  in  Adderly  Street  buying  the  most  perfect 
flowers  in  the  world  from  chattering  Cape  girls,  at  idle  tea- 
drinkings  on  Cartwright's  balcony,  in  wonderful  motor  runs 
round  the  great  grim  mountain,  enthralling  dinners  among  the 
strange  hybrid  population  of  the  Mount  Nelson  Hotel. 

"God's  own  country,  Dolf,"  asserted  Sir  Henry,  a  new, 
beaming,  light-hearted  Sir  Henry,  reinvigorated  by  his  beloved 


n6  DOLF 

sun.  "God's  own  country — wicked,  cruel,  heartless,  but  what 
a  mistress — and  what  a  playground  for  love — '• — 

'Slow  below  the  Wynberg  firs  trails  the  tilted  wain, 

Take  the  flower  and  turn  the  hour,  and  kiss  your  love  again.' 

Aren't  you  happy?  Aren't  you  just  mad  happy?  Look  at 
that  mountain ;  you  might  think  it  was  covered  with  grass,  but 
that  grass  happens  to  be  trees.  Things  are  smaller  at  home. 
Are  you  happy?" 

"  'Course  I'm  happy.  For  one  thing  I've  got  the  best  clothes 
in  the  country.  Oh,  Henry,  did  you  notice  the  frocks  in  Ad- 
derly  Street?  Aren't  they  fierce?" 

"Terrible  as  an  army  with  banners.  Well,  we'll  see  what 
Jo'burg  can  do.  We're  going  there  to-morrow.  I'm  buying  a, 
farm  or  a  mine,  I  forget  which.  You  ought  to  have  a  good  time 
in  Jo'burg  with  an  English  complexion  and  a  Hanover  Square 
wardrobe.  But  remember  the  bargain." 

They  were  picnicking  somewhere  on  the  mountain.  The  dis- 
creet chauffeur  had  faded  round  a  providential  corner;  the 
remains  of  luncheon  lay  on  the  ground;  Dolf,  distracting  by 
reason  of  a  sun-kissed  face  under  a  shady  hat,  ate  the  fattest, 
most  luscious  grapes  she  had  ever  seen,  just  warmed  by  the 
sunshine  in  which  they  grew. 

"I  want  to  kiss  you,"  he  almost  pleaded,  stroking  her  cheek 
with  slow  caressing  fingers.  "Your  hair's  like  the  honey  of 
Paradise  and  the  scent  of  your  skin's  like  the  earth  at  the 
break  of  dawn.  Do  you  like  our  life,  dear?  Are  you  going 
to  keep  me  for — oh,  years  and  years,  or  will  you  go  back  to 
your  horrible  English  virtue  and  turn  me  down?" 

She  leant  against  his  shoulder  and  let  herself  be  kissed, 
quietly,  almost  greedily,  drinking  in  the  most  adorable  love- 
making  she  had  ever  known.  Not  a  sound  broke  the  blissful 
hush  of  Africa.  Far  away  out  at  sea  a  Union  Castle  boat 
from  England  seemed  an  impossible  speck  like  a  gnat  on  the 
surface  of  a  great  lake. 


DOLF  117 

"You're  so  good  to  me.  I  should  love  to  be  married  to  you. 
Why  can't  I?  Why  can  ive  never  marry  men  like  you?" 

"  'Cos  of  a  lot  of  damn,  silly  prejudice,  I  s'pose.  Anyway, 
I  shall  never  marry  anyone.  I've  wandered  too  much,  and 
wherever  I  took  a  wife  there'd  always  be  someone  else  calling 
me.  Don't  worry,  little  Dolf;  just  be  kissed  and  forget." 

So  she  was  kissed,  and  didn't  forget. 

The  next  day  they  took  train  and  Dolf,  from  her  coupe,  filled 
her  eyes  and  her  soul  with  the  great  distances,  the  aching  silent 
spaces  of  this  haggard,  beautiful  land.  She  saw  it  roll  by 
league  on  league  of  veldt  and  kopje,  the  majesty  of  mountains, 
the  green  pastures  of  the  Karroo,  where  the  Lord  has  pre- 
pared his  table  for  the  white  man  in  the  presence  of  his  enemy, 
the  black.  And  in  due  season  they  came  to  Johannesburg,  the, 
new  Jerusalem,  and  took  possession  of  a  suite  at  the  Carlton. 

Dolf  went  down  to  dinner  in  a  gown  of  cream  and  gold  that 
moulded  her  into  a  sheer  delight  of  slender  fairness. 

"Hello,  Aubrey!"  exclaimed  Sir  Henry  joyfully  to  a  tall 
calm  man  who  approached.  "Jolly  good  of  you  to  run  over 
from  Pretoria  so  soon.  Dolf,  this  is  Captain  Purvis,  A.  D.  C.  to 
the  Governor-General,  a  law-giver  even  as  Moses  was.  Shall 
we  dine?  I'm  starving." 


CHAPTER  X 

AT  Harrow  they  called  Aubrey  Purvis  the  Fair  God,  because 
of  his  colouring  and  looks.  He  was  extremely  handsome  and 
about  thirty.  His  past  was  not  innocent  of  women,  yet  none 
of  the  goddesses  who  successively  reigned  had  ever  achieved  the 
inner  shrine  of  his  heart,  which  was  rigidly  set  apart  for  the 
occupancy  of  his  wife,  whenever  he  should  meet  her.  When 
Dolf  smiled  at  him  he  observed  her  with  a  startled  atten- 
tiveness,  as  if  the  question  had  leaped  in  his  mind,  "Is  this 
she?"  And  Dolf,  interpreting  the  look  according  to  her  femi- 
nine intuition,  blessed  the  auspicious  Johannesburg  gods,  and 
set  herself  to  torture  him. 

By  this  time  she  had  all  the  poise  of  a  duchess,  and  the 
catch-phrases  of  her  new  world  by  heart.  Purvis,  fastidious  by 
nature  and  training,  could  find  no  flaw.  Sir  Henry  chatted  in- 
dulgently of  sport  and  his  farm-buying  enterprise.  Purvis 
divided  attention  between  him  and  Dolf,  at  whom  he  glanced 
with  growing  appreciation. 

"Are  you  here  for  long,  Captain  Purvis?"  inquired  Dolf. 
"Shall  we  see  anything  more  of  you  or  do  you  go  back  to  Pre- 
toria forever?" 

"I'm  not  sure.  I  don't  know  till  the  morning.  I  hope  to 
stop  a  few  days,"  he  replied.  "Things  are  pretty  dull  in 
Pretoria  just  now." 

"You'd  better  stay  and  look  after  Dolf  while  I  go  and 
buy  my  farm,"  smiled  Sir  Henry.  "It  wouldn't  interest  her, 
but  Jo'burg  will." 

When  they  had  left  the  table  Purvis,  alone  with  Dolf,  came 
straight  to  the  point. 

IIS 


DOLF  119 

"May  I  see  you  again?  I  want  to  most  particularly.  IVe 
wired  for  leave  and  I  shall  hear  in  the  morning.  Sir  Henry 
and  I  are  old  friends — I  fagged  for  him  at  Harrow,  as  a  mat- 
ter of  fact.  Can  you  spare  me  a  few  minutes  to-morrow,  do 
you  think?" 

Dolf  considered  him  thoughtfully. 

''I  don't  quite  know  what  we're  doing  to-morrow.  "You  see, 
I'm  Sir  Henry's  secretary  and  it  depends  a  good  deal  on  his 
movements.  But  if  you'd  care  to  come  to  tea  on  the  off- 
chance ?" 

"Thank  you  most  awfully.    Of  course  I  will." 

She  gave  him  her  hand  when  he  left.  He  pressed  it  so 
hard  that  a  ring  cut  into  her  fingers. 

"Good-night,"  he  murmured  very  low,  but  the  two  words 
bore  to  her  through  the  starlit  dark  the  fragrance  of  all  the 
love  songs  and  poetry  in  the  world. 

Dolf  met  him  next  day  in  Eloff  Street  on  her  way  back  to 
the  hotel  for  tea.  She  saw  the  light  in  his  eyes  as  they  dwelt 
tenderly  on  her  cool  white  figure.  He  laughed  boyishly. 

"I've  got  my  week's  leave.  I  shall  put  up  at  the  Club. 
What  about  Creagh;  is  he  staying,  too,  or  trekking  after  his 
farm?  I  want  to  know  if  I'm  to  start  looking  after  you  at 
once,  you  see." 

"Yes,"  replied  Dolf.  "He  goes  to-morrow  and  we've  a  box 
at  the  theatre  as  a  sort  of  farewell  celebration.  But  I  shall 
have  heaps  of  work  to  do  and  you  aren't  to  be  a  distraction.  I 
take  my  job  quite  seriously." 

"I'll  be  very  good,"  he  promised  with  a  note  of  yearning. 

She  gave  him  tea  prettily,  and  she  was  the  prettiest  girl  in 
the  place.  She  had  an  English  complexion  and  a  Hanover 
Square  outfit  and  she  behaved  as  the  girls  of  Sir  Henry's 
world  behave.  Every  man  in  the  hotel  wanted  her,  every 
woman  secretly  hated  her,  and  Purvis  was  grateful.  He  did 
not  say  so,  but  she  saw  it. 

Late  that  night  after  the  theatre  and  supper  she  stood  in 


120  DOLF 

their  sitting-room  saying  good-night  to  Sir  Henry.  She  put 
her  hands  on  his  shoulders  and  looked  up  into  his  face. 

"You  do  like  me  a  little  bit,  Henry?" 

"You  know  I  love  you,  you  dear  thing." 

She  shook  her  head  a  little  sadly. 

"You  don't  love  me,  but  you're  all  I  have  in  this  big  coun- 
try. I  shall  miss  you.  Don't  be  away  too  long,  dear." 

He  kissed  the  pleading  lips  and  stroked  the  fair  head.  He 
wished  as  much  as  a  wanderer  can,  that  he  might  settle  to  this 
one  at  last  and  have  her  and  be  hers.  But  he  knew  too  well 
that  spring  would  come  again  and  the  red  gods  call.  In  the 
morning  he  left  her,  and  Purvis  gave  her  lunch. 

The  next  day  he  took  her  riding  far  out  into  the  veldt  where 
the  loneliness  made  her  heart  ache  and  her  eyes  grow  big  and 
misty,  she  knew  not  why.  He  wrapped  her  about  with  a  sort 
of  calm  protection,  having  in  it  something  almost  paternal — 
something  of  a  hush  before  the  storm.  She  supposed  that 
sooner  or  later  the  hurricane  of  passion  would  break  and  beat 
her  to  the  earth.  She  waited. 

The  day  after  they  motored  to  Boksburg  Lake  and  laughed 
at  it  together  and  picnicked  like  children.  Driving  home  in 
the  evening  his  arm  stole  around  her,  and  when  they  had  passed 
the  Half-way  House  he  stopped  the  car  and  took  her  hands. 

"Dolf,"  he  choked,  and  then  the  flood  of  emotion  burst 
through  all  restraint.  "I  love  you — I  love  you,"  he  repeated 
over  and  over.  "There's  nothing  between  you  and  Creagh? 
There  can't  be,  or  you  wouldn't  be  here  together." 

"No,"  she  said  slowly  and  rather  bitterly.  "There's  noth- 
ing between  Sir  Henry  and  me.  But  you  mustn't  kiss  me.  I 
don't  want  you  to.  And  please  take  me  home.  I'm  so — so 
tired." 

He  gazed  at  her  pleadingly. 

"Very  well,  dear.  But  I'll  not  give  you  up,  Dolf!  You're 
mine!  Later,  you  will  let  me  tell  you,  won't  you,  darling?" 

Then  controlling  himself  he  drove  her  back  to  the  Carlton. 


DOLF  121 

She  went  up  to  her  bedroom,  flung  off  her  clothes  and  sat 
with  a  thin  wrap  over  her  thinner  nightgown,  drinking  in  the 
warm  night,  the  white  light  of  the  moon  and  stars,  thinking, 
thinking,  thinking. 

"He  loves  me.  He  doesn't  know.  When  he  does  he'll  shut 
up  his  heart  tighter  than  ever.  He'll  think  of  me  as  a  street 
girl.  I  know  those  'good'  men,  they're  harder  than  diamonds, 
and  about  as  scarce,  thank  God.  He's  another  Gerald  Heri- 
tage, almost.  But  if  I  promised  to  marry  him  before  he  knows 
he'd  stick  to  the  bargain  because  he's  that  kind.  Gerald 
wouldn't  have.  Shall  I  tell  him,  or  shall  I  go  back  to  work 
—after  this?" 

She  looked  around  desperately  at  the  luxurious  room,  her 
clothes,  her  dressing-table — everything.  A  tall  mirror  re- 
flected a  girl  whose  beauty  any  king  might  desire.  Life  seemed 
very  hard,  with  every  man's  hand  against  her. 

"Why  be  good?"  she  murmured  savagely.  "What  is  being 
'good?'  Is  anything  'good'  when  it  means  losing  all  the  beauty 
of  life,  and  is  anything  bad  that  gives  it  to  you?  Any  fool 
girl  who's  rich  can  be  good,  but  to  be  good  and  poor  when  you 
might  be  bad  and  rich — where's  the  sense?" 

Throughout  the  moonlit  night  she  lay  wide-eyed  wrangling 
with  Fate.  In  the  morning  came  flowers  from  Purvis  and  an 
invitation  to  ride.  As  they  cantered  out  into  the  veldt  to- 
gether she  flung  at  him  a  phrase  that  dinned  itself  into  her 
brain  with  every  thud  of  her  horse's  hoofs. 

"Sir  Henry  comes  back  to-morrow." 

"Ah!"  said  Purvis.  A  strange  note  of  satisfaction  pervaded 
the  word.  The  news  of  Sir  Henry's  return  seemed  to  solve 
some  problem. 

"Then  will  you  dine  with  me  to-night  and  come  for  a  motor 
run  afterwards?  I  want  particularly  to  talk  to  you  before 
Creagh  returns  and  it'll  be  my  last  chance.  Will  you?" 

"Thanks.  I'd  love  it,"  she  replied  briefly  and  hit  her  horse 
twice  venomously,  so  that  he  sprang  into  a  gallop.  Captain 


122  DOLF 

Purvis'  suave  rectitude  drove  her  to  the  edge  of  exasperation. 

Later,  up  in  Sir  Henry's  suite  Dolf  asked  Mrs.  Strangeways 
if  she  were  coming  down  to  lunch  with  her.  The  chaperon 
had  pleaded  some  unexplained  indisposition  since  they  reached 
Johannesburg.  She  smiled  in  her  peculiar  way. 

"I  lunched  early  becauce  I  had  no  breakfast." 

"Sorry,"  said  Dolf  and  went  down  alone.  Little  did  she 
dream  to  whom  she  was  going. 

At  first  she  disbelieved  her  own  eyes.  But  when  he  came 
towards  her  she  smothered  a  cry  and  braced  herself  to  meet 
him  casually. 

"Torn  Wainwright,  of  all  people  in  the  world!" 

"Well,  Dolf,  I'll  bet  you  aren't  more  surprised  than  I  was. 
I  looked  and  looked,  and  wondered  if  I  were  dreaming.  What 
are  you  doing  here?" 

"But  what  are  you  doing  here?" 

He  laughed,  suggesting  dazzling  things  not  to  be  told  in  a 
word. 

"Oh,  I'm  on  business.  And  the  funny  thing  is  I  was  mean- 
ing to  leave  to-day,  but  now  I  have  to  wait  till  to-morrow — 
just  when  I  can  hardly  spare  the  time,  too.  But  it  mayn't  be 
such  a  strain  now  I've  met  an  old  neighbour.  I'll  sit  here  with 
you — and  the  lunch  is  mine,  understand  that.  Order  any- 
thing you  like.  I  can  stand  it;  things  are  going  pretty  well." 

Through  his  dominating  self-assurance  she  grasped  one  glo- 
rious fact — he  was  leaving  tomorrow.  She  breathed  again  and 
considered  him;  his  round  figure,  rounder  and  stockier  than 
ever,  his  prosperous  clothes  that  just  escaped  blatancy,  his 
small  eyes  a-gleam  with  self-satisfaction.  And  meanwhile  he 
appraised  her. 

"What's  the  answer  to  all  this?"  he  asked,  indicating  her 
attire,  her  surroundings,  her  care-free  atmosphere. 

"I'm  secretary  to  an  author  who  is  writing  a  book  and 
travelling.  My  chaperon  is  upstairs  with  a  headache.  If  you 
don't  believe  me,  as  I  see  you  don't,  look  in  the  register." 


DOLF  123 

"Yes,  I  think  I  believe  you,"  he  smiled.  "I  mean  about  the 
register.  The  rest  is  your  affair.  You're  a  bit  of  a  genius!" 

"But  not  quite  clever  enough  to  understand  why  you  ap- 
proach me  in  a  public  place  and  insinuate  horrid  things,"  she 
answered  coldly. 

"All  right.  Beg  pardon.  You  needn't  be  so  short  with  me, 
either.  After  all  you  might  say  I  haven't  done  worse  my- 
self than  you  have." 

"Yes,  that  seems  to  be  so.    Is  it  still  groceries?" 

"Yes,  but  not  in  that  tone  of  voice.  I'm  no  village  grocer 
now,  let  me  tell  you.  I've  a  chain  of  shops  in  London — three, 
in  fact.  But  three  three's  are  nine,  at  least  they  will  be  pres- 
ently, and  three  nines  are  twenty-seven.  Oh,  I'm  making  my 
little  plans." 

Dolf  was  human.  One  could  not  be  unimpressed  by  this 
demonstration  of  energy  and  shrewdness,  however  uncouth  the 
possessor.  And  Tom  did  look  crude  enough,  almost  gross,  in 
the  atmosphere  she  breathed  these  days. 

"I  congratulate  you.    What  brought  you  to  Jo-burg?" 

"Jam.  Yes,  really.  And  then,  it  was  time  I  travelled  a  bit. 
I  don't  believe  in  waiting  till  you're  too  old.  I've  picked  up 
things  here  and  there.  And  anyhow  there's  nothing  like  deal- 
ing at  the  sources  of  things.  I've  learned  how  to  save  twenty 
to  fifty  per  cent  on  pretty  nearly  every  consignment.  I'll  not 
lose  by  the  trip." 

He  ordered  food  lavishly.  She  noted  how  barely  he  just 
missed  choosing  the  right  things.  Her  own  appetite  had  gone, 
but  he  was  too  full  of  the  narration  of  his  affairs  to  notice. 

"Concentration — that's  the  secret.  Not  getting  cluttered  up 
with  other  interests.  Girls?  No!  Time  for  that  later  on." 

"For  the  daughter  of  an  earl,  Tom?" 

"Well,  who  can  say  it  won't  happen?" 

"Who,  indeed?"  she  repeated  lightly,  with  exquisite  irony. 

After  he  had  eaten  enormously  and  talked  incessantly,  he 
became  suddenly  more  personal.  She  was  to  go  with  him  to 


124  DOLF 

see  the  sights — he  wasn't  keeping  his  business  appointment  till 
five,  and  the  whole  evening  was  free. 

"But  Tom,  you  don't  seem  to  understand  that  I'm  a  secre- 
tary, that  I've  work  to  do.  I  earn  all  this  grandeur,  you 
know.  I'm  sorry  I  can't  go  with  you,  but  you'll  find  someone, 
I  dare  say." 

"It'd  be  nicer  with  you,"  he  persisted.  "I  know  you.  And 
you  know  me.  You'd  not  get  silly  notions,  even  if  the  excite- 
ment and  sights  and  all  worked  on  our  blood — and  I  am  a 
man,  I  admit  it,  and  you're  an  attractive  girl.  I  admit  that 
too."  And  his  eyes  roved  over  her  as  they  had  done  that  night 
in.  London. 

It  gave  her  a  certain  sense  of  triumph  that  this  man,  so  con- 
centrated on  his  "career"  that  no  time  remained  for  girls,  al- 
ways wavered  before  her.  He  was  willing  to  swerve,  if  only 
for  a  moment,  from  his  clear-cut  plans  because  he  had  just 
enough  fineness  to  detect  and  appreciate  her  particular  charm, 
if  not  to  respect  it.  But  by  contrast  with  Sir  Henry  and  Pur- 
vis he  was  intolerable. 

She  escaped  on  the  plea  of  immediate  work  and  insisted  on 
making  it  a  definite  farewell. 

As  she  dressed  that  evening  a  wire  came  from  Sir  Henry: 

"Back  at  eight  to-night.    Please  choose  celebration  dinner." 

Dolf  twisted  the  thin  sheet  between  her  white  fingers;  a 
cynical  smile  played  round  her  lips. 

"And  I've  promised  Aubrey.  And  if  I  have  a  love  affair 
with  anyone,  Henry's  and  my  arrangements  cease  from  that 
moment."  She  glanced  coolly,  rather  bitterly  at  her  reflection. 
"Even  in  Johannesburg  pr'haps  I  shouldn't  starve.  Anyway, 
I'll  risk  it." 

Purvis  came  for  her  in  the  car  and  they  motored  out  to  dine. 
Dolf  set  herself  to  madden  him  for  the  first  and  last  time;  she 
played  with  his  immortal  soul  as  a  cat  plays  with  a  mouse.  He 
could  do  nothing  but  what  she  willed.  And  when  she  willed 
him  to  ask  her  to  marry  him,  he  did  ask. 


DOLF  125 

Across  their  table  in  a  secluded  corner  of  that  out  of  town 
inn  she  looked  at  him  with  hard  eyes  and  a  mocking  mouth. 

"Always  remember,  Aubrey,"  she  began,  "that  I  coufd  say 
'yes'  now,  at  this  moment,  and  if  I  were  to  say  yes,  you  would 
stick  to  your  bargain  whatever  happened,  because  you're  Aub- 
rey Julian  Secundus  Purvis,  the  son  of  Sir  Denzil  Purvis, 
baronet,  of  Beaumanoir  in  the  county  of  Sussex.  Isn't  that 
so?" 

He  inclined  his  head. 

"Well,  Aubrey,  I  won't  marry  you.  For  one  thing  I  believe 
you  love  me;  for  another  I'm  not  exactly  the  girl  you  imagine. 
I've  worked  in  a  shop  in  London.  Sir  Henry  saw  me  at  a 
dance  and  wanted  me.  'Course,  people  like  you  and  Sir  Henry 
don't  marry  people  like  me,  do  they?  He's  showing  me  all  the 
treasures  of  the  earth  now  and  if  I  like  the  life  sufficiently 
I'll  just  say  'right  ho!'  and  if  not  we'll  part  friends.  Privately, 
I  think  we'll  part,  but  I  shall  need  a  very  strong  will.  At  the 
moment  I'm  what  you  call  a  good  girl  and  I  have  a  perfectly 
good  chaperon.  But  you've  had  a  narrow  escape,  haven't 
you?" 

She  laughed  into  his  eyes  and  flung  her  beauty  at  him  de- 
fiantly. 

"Again  I  ask  you  to  do  me  the  honour  of  marrying  me," 
was  all  he  said. 

She  sighed  and  rose  delicately  to  her  feet. 

"Aubrey,  you're  a  good  sort,  but  a  little  mad  and  melo- 
dramatic. You've  never  found  your  balance  where  girls  are 
concerned.  I  should  ruin  your  career  and  we'd  both  be  miser- 
able. You  can't  conceal  people  like  me.  Please  take  me  home. 
Sir  Henry  came  back  at  eight,  and  he'll  want  me." 

With  perfectly  precise  good  manners  he  shepherded  her  into 
the  car,  saw  to  every  detail  of  her  comfort  and  drove  her  back. 
It  was  some  solace  for  his  wounded  pride  to  do  this.  At  the 
hotel  entrance  she  laid  a  hand  on  his  arm. 

"Don't  come  in,"  she  murmured.    And  then: 


126  DOLF 

"Oh,  Aubrey,  you  lucky,  inhuman,  lovable,  absurd  ass.  Don't 
you  realise  I've  refused  heaven  and  chosen  hell  to-night?  Don't 
you  think  if  you'd  taken  me  in  your  arms  and  kissed  me  you'd 
have  won?  And  at  the  beginning  at  any  rate  you  wanted  to 
win.  Good-night." 

She  passed  into  the  hotel  and  up  to  Sir  Henry's  sitting-room. 

He  was  waiting  for  her,  perfectly  unmoved,  tall,  lean  and 
brown  as  ever,  the  dinner  kit  accentuating  his  broad  shoulders. 

"Well,  dear?"  he  queried  simply,  but  there  lurked  a  dan- 
gerous glint  in  his  hazel  eyes.  Dolf  sensed  the  possessive  male 
instinct,  the  immemorial  jealousy. 

"Hullo!"  she  began  cheerfully.  "I've  been  out  with  Aubrey. 
I'd  promised  before  your  wire  came,  and  his  leave's  up  to- 
morrow. You  don't  mind,  do  you?  After  all,  it's  only  one  of 
your  and  my  many  evenings." 

She  put  her  hands  on  his  shoulders  with  the  old  gesture. 
He  took  them  and  looked  straight  into  her  eyes. 

"Has  he  kissed  you?" 

"No." 

"What  has  he  done?" 

"He  asked  me  to  marry  him  this  evening.  I  refused.  I 
explained  the  reason  why  I'm  here.  Probably  he  doesn't  want 
to  marry  me  now." 

"Does  he  love  you?" 

"Yes." 

"Do  you  love  him?" 

She  hesitated. 

"A  girl  in  my  position  always  has  a  certain  respect  for  a 
man  who  asks  her  to  marry  him,"  she  said,  with  the  faintest 
touch  of  sarcasm. 

He  sighed.  Perhaps  he  was  a  thought  tired  of  her,  of  the 
situation,  his  Quixotic  suggestion. 

"I  hardly  think  you  were  justified  in  revealing  our  com- 
pact," he  observed  thoughtfully.  "I  think  also  this  business 


DOLF  127 

with  Purvis  ends  it.  You  will  remember  you  were  not  to 
have  a  love  affair  with  any  other  man." 

She  stood  back  a  little  and  considered  him  gravely,  as  peo- 
ple view  a  pleasant  prospect  for  the  last  time. 

"You've  been  very  good  to  me,  Henry.  I  shall  always  have 
the  most  delightful  memories  of  you.  It's  unfortunate  that 
Aubrey  fell  in  love  with  me,  but  in  any  case  I  don't  think  you 
could  ever  have  had — what  you  want.  We  should  have  parted 
anyhow.  It's  rather  late;  may  I  stay  just  this  night,  and  leave 
in  the  morning? 

"What  will  you  do?  You  haven't  a  penny.  Johannesburg's 
an  expensive  place." 

She  smiled.  "I've  a  few  pounds  of  my  own.  And,  really, 
I'm  quite  used  to  taking  care  of  myself.  Johannesburg — Lon- 
don— what's  the  difference?  There  are  plenty  of  shops  here. 
I  can  get  a  job." 

He  laughed,  but  she  knew  he  admired  her.  There  was  re- 
spect in  the  laugh. 

"Dear  little  Dolf,  you've  got  the  pluck  of  the  devil.  You 
don't  suppose  I'd  leave  you  alone  on  the  wrong  side  of  the 
world?  I'm  going  home,  and  if  you  will  I  should  like  you  to 
go  with  me.  I've  bought  the  farm  and  we  may  as  well  start 
at  once.  Can  I  still  kiss  you  good-night,  please?" 

"It's  rather  friendly,"  she  murmured,  and  held  up  her  mouth 
like  a  tired  child. 

Again  the  coupe,  the  aching  distances  from  the  train  win- 
dows, Cape  Town,  the  clipper-bowed  yacht,  and  her  white, 
enamelled  cabin  with  the  genuine  bed  and  the  silver  fittings. 

They  went  home  by  Madeira  and  the  short  route,  for  love 
ever  chooses  the  longest  way  out  and  the  quickest  way  back. 
Ever  behind  they  flung  blue  sky  and  violet  sea,  exchanging 
them  for  the  green  and  grey  of  less  fortunate  latitudes. 

Two  nights  out  from  Southampton  they  sat  after  dinner  in 
the  music  room,  glad  of  artificial  heat,  smoking  reflective  ciga- 
rettes. Two  days  would  see  them  parted  for  ever,  the  ties 


128  DOLF 

of  daily  companionship  snapped,  strangers  in  a  strange  world, 

At  last  Dolf  stretched  out  a  hand  from  her  end  of  the  ches- 
terfield and  laid  it  on  his. 

"Henry,"  she  began  slowly,  "do  you  remember  how  much 
you  wanted  me  the  first  evening  we  met?" 

He  nodded,  and  took  the  slender  hand  in  his. 

"I  don't  suppose  I  shall  ever  like  any  man  better  than 
you,"  she  went  on  dreamily.  "It's  been  very  sweet  while  it 
lasted;  no  one  ever  took  care  of  me  as  you've  done.  You've 
given  me  the  most  heavenly  time.  I  daresay  I'm  very  selfish 
and  make  a  great  fuss  over  not  a  great  deal  and  so  if — 
if  .  .  ." 

Slowly  the  blood  stained  her  fair  face  and  rounded  throat. 
She  hid  from  his  eyes  against  his  shoulder  and  waited.  He 
seemed  to  be  a  very  long  time. 

"Dolf,"  he  said  at  last,  "do  you  remember  in  Johannesburg, 
offering  to  walk  straight  out  of  the  Carlton  and  look  after 
yourself,  because  I  said  you'd  broken  our  contract?  That 
was  pretty  sporting.  And  as  you  were  prepared  to  stick  to 
the  letter  of  the  contract  then,  so  am  I  now.  We  said  you 
should  choose  and  whatever  you  may  say  (and  it's  very  dear 
of  you  to  say  it),  I  know  what  your  choice  is.  You're  per- 
fectly right  and  I'm  not  worth  it.  So,  little  Dolf,  we  just  part 
friends,  don't  you  think?" 

She  bowed  her  head,  and  so  he  held  her,  a  long  time. 

They  said  good-bye  at  Waterloo  Station.  He  collected  her 
luggage  and  saw  her  into  a  taxi.  She  watched  him  until  the 
traffic  hid  him  from  sight,  and  the  grey  atmosphere  of  town 
had  never  seemed  so  grey. 

Netta's  flat  appeared  very  small  after  so  many  spacious  days. 
Netta,  wise  with  wisdom  beyond  her  years,  asked  no  ques- 
tions. As  they  brushed  their  hair  together,  suddenly  Dolf 
put  her  head  on  the  elder  girl's  knee  and  sobbed  broken- 
heartedly. 

Netta  soothed  the  fair  hair  very  gently. 


DOLF  129 

"Poor  kid,"  she  said  with  dry  compassion.  "Either  a  girl 
gambles  everything  and  loses,  or  plays  for  safety  and  regrets 
it  evermore,  amen.  The  first's  the  worse,  but  both  are  the  very 
devil." 

Dolf  looked  up  out  of  tear-stained  eyes. 

"He  was  such  a  dear  and  I  feel  so  mean.  But  some  day 
when  I  really  love  someone  I  shall  be  glad,  shan't  I,  Netta?" 

"Believe  me,  some  joy  day,"  retorted  Netta,  the  born 
gambler. 

Yet  Dolf's  heart  was  bitter  with  disillusionment,  and  she 
remembered  Tom  Wainwright,  how  he  had  come  to  her  in  Jo- 
hannesburg out  of  her  past,  out  of  the  life  to  which,  after  all, 
she  probably  belonged. 

Something  seemed  to  try  to  push  her  down  and  down. 

"But  I'll  not  go  back  down  there.  I  don't  belong  there,  I 
don't!  I  don't!"  cried  something  else  in  her,  triumphing 
over  the  other  and  bringing  the  fight  back  to  her  eyes  and  the 
proud  tilt  to  her  little  rounded  chin. 


CHAPTER  XI 

"You  must  make  out  at  the  theatre.  You're  just  the  type," 
decreed  Netta.  So,  for  no  better  reason,  Dolf  approached  the 
new  life. 

In  a  chorus  dressing-room  of  the  Summerhouse  Theatre,  the 
air  hung  heavy  with  shrill  conversation,  grains  of  powder,  scent, 
and  the  aroma  of  clothes  and  warm  young  bodies.  A  dozen 
girls  discussed  life  as  it  immediately  affected  them,  wrangled 
with  the  dresser,  and  made  up  for  the  first  act  of  "Love  Wisely" 
all  at  the  same  time. 

"Maggie,  have  my  shoes  come?" 

"Ain't  seen  nothing  of  them,  Miss  Pomeroy." 

"You  don't  want  me  to  go  on  in  these  things?  I  abso- 
lutely float  about  in  them.  Richardson's  man  swore  he'd 
send  the  others.  Phyllis,  darling,  lend  me  a  mite  of  wet 
white — I  simply  must  have  some  more  on  my  arms." 

Phyllis,  a  lovely  blonde,  clad  simply  in  one  garment  and 
that  unsubstantial — continued  to  gaze  fixedly  at  her  reflection 
in  a  strip  of  looking-glass  nailed  to  the  wall  and  work  make- 
up into  her  oval  cheeks. 

The  call  boy,  hammering  callously  on  the  door,  cried  rau- 
cously: 

"Five  minutes,  ladies,  please.    Beginners  for  the  first  act!" 

"My  God!"  wailed  Miss  Pomeroy  distractedly.  "My  God! 
I'll  kill  Richardson's.  And  Tony  Bayswater's  in  front,  too. 
Oh,  damn!" 

In  a  far  corner  of  the  room  Dolf  leant  dispassionately 
against  the  wall  watching  Netta  Blatchley  hook  the  last  hook, 
subdue  the  last  curl,  impose  the  final  touches  of  carmine  and 

130 


DOLF  131 

eye-lash  black.  Dolf  struck  an  alien  note  amid  this  hard  glit- 
ter and  cast-iron  effrontery  even  as  her  blue  street-suit  con- 
trasted with  the  exotic  daring  of  short  skirts  and  extreme 
'decolletage.  She  seemed  too  fine  spiritually  and  physically  to 
survive  in  an  atmosphere  of  robust  charms  and  emotional  hardi- 
hood. The  thought  occurred  to  Netta  Blatchley,  who  surveyed 
her  critically  with  appraising  blue-lidded  scarlet-cornered  eyes. 

"I  guess  he'll  give  you  a  chance,  Dolf,"  she  observed  judi- 
cially at  last.  "Clyte's  no  fool.  He  knows  the  value  of  a  con- 
trast with  us  big  bold  bad  girls.  But  you  want  to  go  out  after 
him.  Put  the  glad  eye  over  him  and  look  as  if  you  were  good 
for  anything,  as  if  you  didn't  care  whether  you  go  on  here 
or  not.  Give  him  the  idea  you've  got  a  rich  pal  in  the 
background.  That  and  your  face  and  your  legs  ought  to 
do  the  trick.  Bluff,  girl,  bluff  for  all  you're  worth.  Get  me?" 

Again  there  came  that  thundering  summons  on  the  door. 
,  "Overture!  Beginners,  please,  ladies!" 

With  all  the  swirl  and  panache  that  distinguish  the  Summer- 
house  beyond  all  other  theatres,  the  chorus  flaunted  down  a 
flight  of  narrow  stone  stairs  with  shrill  snatches  of  song. 

Dolf  remained  alone  with  the  aged  dresser  amid  the  ruins 
of  twelve  toilettes.  She  picked  up  a  hare's  foot  idly  and 
played  with  it.  She  rubbed  a  little  wet  white  experimentally 
on  her  wrist.  Far  away  came  syncopated  bursts  of  music  as 
someone  opened  and  shut  a  door.  The  aged  dresser  wagged  a 
wise  head  sagely. 

_  "Some  bunch,  ain't  they?  Coin7  on,  dearie?  You  couldn't 
'ave  chosen  a  better  'ouse.  Fair  crawlin'  with  dukes  and  earls 
we  are." 

Dolf,  with  wisdom  beyond  her  years,  slipped  half-a-crown 
into  the  lady's  hand. 

"Wish  me  luck,  Maggie.    I  want  it — oh,  I  do  want  it!" 

Her  breath  came  sighing  between  parted  red  lips.  The  old 
wild  wicked  magic  of  the  theatre  had  already  inoculated  her 
racing  blood. 


132  DOLF 

During  the  first  interval  there  came  a  messenger. 

"Miss  Blatchley  and  Miss  Farmer  in  Mr.  Clyte's  room  at 
once,  please." 

Clattering  at  Netta's  heels,  Dolf  rushed  headlong  to  her 
fate. 

He  sat  at  a  roll-top  desk  in  an  over-decorated  room.  A 
piano  occupied  one  corner;  signed  photographs  and  posters 
covered  the  walls.  He  had  a  pale,  smooth-shaven,  sophisti- 
cated face  and  his  dark  eyes  knew  neither  pity  nor  restraint. 
They  roamed  openly  over  Dolf  from  head  to  foot  in  scientific 
appraisal. 

"You  want  to  go  on  here,  Miss  Farmer?  Have  you  any 
stage  experience?" 

"No,"  came  in  a  little  soft  drawl,  and  her  eyes  met 
his,  limpidly  clear.  A  faint  change  insinuated  itself  into  the 
manager's  voice  and  manner.  Dolf's  almost  childish  beauty 
and  appeal,  her  very  frailness  and  slenderness,  troubled  him, 
as  these  had  always  troubled  men  ever  since  she  could  remem- 
ber. He  shrugged  faintly  at  the  reply,  but  he  did  not  end  the 
interview. 

"Can  you  sing?" 

"Yes." 

"Dance?" 

"A  little." 

"Walk  across  the  room." 

Dolf  walked.  She  walked  as  in  the  days  when,  a  mannequin, 
she  had  lent  the  mystery  and  appeal  of  her  youth  to  priceless 
gowns  and  thereby  doubled  their  price.  She  walked  as  though, 
a  princess  in  her  own  right,  the  very  existence  of  Mr.  Ferguson 
Clyte,  his  theatre,  and  all  that  was  his  weighed  less  with 
her  than  the  dust  on  a  butterfly's  wing.  At  the  far  side  of 
the  room  she  turned  sharply  with  a  flick  of  the  skirt  that 
emphasised  slim  ankles  and  small  feet  and  stood  looking  at 
him  with  faint  amused  mockery,  half  innocent,  half  calculated. 

"All  right.    Rehearse  at  ten  to-morrow." 


DOLF  133 

A  little  sigh  seemed  to  float  across  the  room.    Dolf  had  won. 

A  month  later  she  stood  again  in  the  same  room,  a  very 
painted,  manicured  curled  darling,  with  pearl-powdered  bare 
arms  and  shoulders,  and  long  silken  legs  under  her  short  skirt. 

"Miss  Farmer,"  snapped  Ferguson  Clyte,  "I'm  not  satisfied 
with  you.  On  the  surface  you're  all  right,  but  that's  not 
enough.  You  aren't  here  just  to  go  on  and  come  off  and  sing 
a  little  and  dance  a  few  steps.  I've  introduced  several  charm- 
ing, influential  men  to  you,  but  I  don't  see  you  dancing  with 
them  at  the  right  places  nor  lunching  at  the  right  restaurants. 
You're  no  good  to  me,  dear,  if  you're  no  good — er,  socially. 
You  ought  to  know  that  the  chorus  either  fill  the  stalls  or  get 
out  of  the  chorus.  What's  the  matter  with  you?" 

Dolf  shrugged.  The  old,  old  problem  had  cropped  up  once 
more. 

"I  don't  mind  lunching  with  them  and  dancing  with  them, 
but  they  won't  stop  at  that.  They  want — more  than  they're 
ever  likely  to  get.  They're  men,"  she  ended  wearily. 

"Rubbish,  dear.  You  need  tact — a  little  tact.  I  don't  want 
to  be  hard  on  you.  You're  pretty  'n  all  that  and  you've  worked 
hard.  You  don't  miss  performances  and  turn  up  late.  Tell 
you  what.  I'm  running  down  to  Brighton  myself  on  Sunday 
with  the  Hon.  Percy  Wycombe  and  we  want  another  girl  to 
make  a  fourth.  You'd  better  come  along  and  see  life.  You 
want  waking  up.  What  do  you  say?" 

Dolf  reflected.  She  saw  a  powerful  car  and  luncheon  bas- 
kets, champagne  and  smart  hotels,  men — charming  enough  on 
the  surface — becoming  cold,  half-bullying,  imperative  if  a  girl 
said  "thus  far  and  no  farther."  Her  lips  curled  contemptu- 
ously. 

"I  don't  think  so,  thanks.  I  hate  being  pawed  about,  and 
kisses  tasting  of  drink,  and  having  my  hair  pulled  down  and 
my  frock  crumpled  up  like  a  rag-bag." 

Ferguson  Clyte's  face  shut  up  like  a  rat  trap. 


I34 

"Then  your  notice  expires  in  a  fortnight.  That's  all,  Miss 
Farmer — unless  you  choose  to  change  your  mind." 

She  went  out  with  feet  of  lead  for  all  her  gay  frock  and 
artificial  pink.  Always,  inevitably,  one  came  up  against  this 
problem — the  insatiable  demands  of  men.  Always  hitherto  she 
had  refused;  yet  was  it  worth  while  continually  to  differ  from 
other  girls,  to  take  the  rough  of  life  instead  of  the  smooth, 
because  of  some  instinct  for  exclusiveness  fast  fading  into  a 
legend  these  modern  days?  How  long  was  one  to  go  on  strug- 
gling against  the  stream  when  every  other  girl  floated  down  it 
in  a  golden  argosy  to  the  strains  of  soft  music,  the  tinkle  of 
jewelled  ornaments  and  the  liquid  frisson  of  silken  garments? 

"Well,"  commented  Netta  when  she  heard,  "you  please  your- 
self in  this  world.  I  don't  say  you  aren't  right,  but  you'll 
have  a  dull  life.  I  wasn't  born  a  hermit  and  the  world  isn't 
a  convent.  My  face  and  my  figure  won't  last  forever  and 
then  I'll  repent — some  little  old  repentance,  believe  me.  But 
as  for  now — shoo!  let's  get  away  with  it!" 

Dolf  went  on  in  the  last  act  waiting  for  a  redeeming  sign 
from  heaven  or  a  sufficiently  attractive  temptation  from  hell. 
Later  something  came,  and  which  it  was  she  neither  knew  nor 
cared. 

Passing  out  at  the  stage  door  she  became  aware  of  some  un- 
usual feature.  Pigeon,  the  haughty  autocrat  of  that  portal 
whom  five  shillings  would  melt  into  subservient  humanity, 
gazed  majestically  at  a  strayed  reveller,  his  hair  thick  with 
metaphoric  vine-leaves.  This  person  wore  the  conventional 
evening  garb  in  a  slightly  exaggerated  form.  A  crumpled  gar- 
denia distinguished  his  button-hole.  An  opera-hat,  headgear 
sacred  to  the  suburbs  and  outer  darkness,  swayed  perilously 
on  his  head.  He  stood  planted  with  the  illusive  steadfastness 
of  the  intoxicated,  pointed  solemnly  at  Pigeon  a  gold-mounted 
ebony  stick  and  observed  wrathfully: 

"Mush  shee  Miss  Delia  Carisbrooke.  Ver'  ol'  frien'  o1 
mine.  Go 'n  tell  her  at  wonsh!" 


DOLF  135 

Now,  Miss  Delia  Carisbrooke  was  the  brightest  particular 
star  of  "Love  Wisely." 

"You'd  better  go  home,  Sir.  Miss  Carisbrooke  can't  see 
you,"  came  austerely  from  Pigeon. 

"Heaven  love  your  soul!"  began  the  stranger  ferociously,  or 
words  to  that  effect.  But  Dolf  having  perceived  at  the  curb  a 
specimen  of  the  only  car  in  the  world,  flanked  by  an  agitated 
chauffeur,  recognised  her  heaven-sent  opportunity.  She  slipped 
half-a-crown  from  the  jingling  meshes  of  a  silver  chain  bag  into 
the  willing  hand  of  Pigeon,  leaned  confidingly  against  the  re- 
veller and  caught  his  arm. 

"Come  along,  old  thing,  we'll  go  and  find  Delia  together," 
she  murmured  reassuringly. 

"Night-night,  girls!" 

The  stranger,  who  seemed  to  be  a  mere  boy,  allowed  him- 
self to  be  led  away.  She  was  very  delightful  and  he  knew  he 
had  an  awful  head.  The  agitated  chauffeur  opened  the  door. 

"Take  him  home  for  heaven's  sake  and  I'll  try  and  keep  him 
quiet,"  whispered  Dolf.  The  man  nodded,  clicked  the  door 
catch,  and  the  great  car  whirred  silkily  away. 

They  travelled  through  the  Strand,  up  Regent  Street  into 
Portland  Place  and  stopped  before  a  block  of  expensive  flats. 
The  chauffeur  appeared  at  the  door. 

"Perhaps,  Miss,  I  had  better  inform  Goodson,"  he  said 
tactfully.  Dolf  nodded.  The  chauffeur  rang  the  door  bell  and 
returned  with  a  perfectly  impersonal  valet,  who,  taking  his 
master's  arm,  assisted  him  through  the  hall  into  the  lift. 
Dolf  found  herself  a  minute  later  standing  in  a  smoking- 
room  evidently  furnished  regardless  of  cost  by  a  firm  of  high- 
class  furniture  dealers  on  their  own  initiative.  The  boy  lay 
back,  ghastly  white,  in  a  deep  leather  arm-chair.  Goodson 
re-appeared  silently  with  a  cup  of  strong  coffee  and  adminis- 
tered it.  The  patient  gasped,  sat  up,  and  exclaimed: 

"A  big  soda,  quick,  for  God's  sake!" 


i36  DOLF 

Goodson  brought  the  soda,  which  disappeared  almost  at  a 
draught. 

"Go  away  now — and  don't  come  back,"  ordered  his  mas- 
ter peevishly.  Goodson  went,  still  preserving  his  unearthly 
calm. 

The  lawful  tenant  of  the  premises  ran  a  shaky  hand  through 
his  damp  locks  and  gazed  wearily  at  Dolf. 

"How  the  devil  did  you  get  here?"  he  inquired  at  last. 

"I  brought  you  home  from  the  Summerhouse.  You  were 
raising  blue  murder  at  the  stage  door.  And  I  should  like  a 
cigarette,"  said  Dolf  very  calmly,  looking  down  at  him  with  a 
contented  smile. 

"The  fact  of  the  matter  is,  I  was  drunk,"  said  the  young 
man  in  a  burst  of  confidence.  "Do  you  know  why  I  got  drunk? 
Because  I'm  rich — at  least,  my  dad  is  rich,  which  comes  to 
the  same  thing — and  I'm  trying  to  enjoy  myself  and  can't. 
Can't  get  hold  of  the  right  people.  No  friends  in  London  ex- 
cept billiard  sharps  and  racing  touts.  No  girls  except — well, 
you  know.  We  made  munitions  all  the  war — worked  like  a 
slave  I  did,  and  since  then  I've  rather  broken  down.  Want  a 
rest  and  change.  And  there's  nothing  doing.  Damn  these 
boots!" 

He  gazed  savagely  at  a  pair  of  narrow  patent  button  boots. 

"Oh!"  observed  Dolf  carefully,  taking  a  cigarette  from  the 
box  and  lighting  it  at  an  electric  lighter,  "munitions?  Yes.  I 
see." 

Her  experienced  eyes  took  in  all  the  wrong  things — and  there 
were  many — in  his  attire,  his  hair,  his  jewellery.  She  nodded 
thoughtfully. 

"Did  you  find  out  my  name?" 

"I  never  tried." 

He  seemed  relieved. 

"I  s'pose  you  want  to  know  who  I  am?"  he  went  on  rather 
consciously. 


DOLF  137 

"Not  in  the  least,  but  I  should  like  you  to  send  me  home 
in  your  car.  It's  getting  fairly  late." 

He  got  up  and  looked  at  her  narrowly.  Dolf  was  used  to 
being  looked  at.  She  gazed  over  his  head  at  an  engraving  on 
the  wall,  the  cigarette  burning  away  between  her  fingers. 

"I  like  tha',  lass,"  he  burst  out.  "I'm  from  the  North.  I 
want  to  knock  them  in  London.  I've  got  the  brass,  and  this 
flat  and  the  car,  but  I  can't  get  any  further.  You  know  the 
ropes;  will  you  help  me?  I'll  make  it  worth  your  while." 

"In  London,"  said  Dolf,  again  carefully,  "the  people  you 
want  to  meet  and  can't,  don't  say  to  a  girl  'I'll  make  it  worth 
your  while.'  They  may  take  her  out  to  dinner  or  give  her  a 
bracelet,  or  even  pay  a  few  of  her  bills,  but  they  don't  talk 
about  it.  They  let  it  seem  the  natural  thing  for  them  to  do. 
They  even  imply  it's  a  privilege." 

His  cheeks  flushed,  for  he  was  barely  twenty-four,  but  his 
jaw  set. 

"I'm  here  to  learn,"  he  said  grimly.    "Go  on." 

Dolf  drew  delicately  at  the  cigarette,  leaning  against  the 
mantel-piece. 

"They  don't  go  to  your  tailor.  They  don't  wear  buttoned 
boots  with  dress  clothes.  They  don't  wear  fairly  heavy  gold 
watch-chains,  either.  There  are  about  two  places  where  you 
can  get  your  hair  cut.  I  think  you  buy  your  shirts  ready 
made,  don't  you?  And  if  you  had  your  dress  shoes  built 
for  you  they  wouldn't  hurt  your  feet." 

She  smiled  daintily  into  his  eyes. 

"Shall  I  go  on?" 

"No,  but  you  and  I  can  do  business  together;  that  is,  I  shall 
be  happy" — he  minced  his  words — "I  shall  be  happy  to  have 
the  pleasure  of  taking  you  to  dinner  and  the  privilege  of  pay- 
ing a  bill  or  two  if  you'll — what  is  it? — introduce  me  into  good 
society.  Is  it  a  bargain?" 

Dolf  threw  away  the  cigarette  end. 

"You  may  motor  me  back  to  where  I  live  and  take  me  to 


I38  DOLF 

lunch  at  the  Restaurant  d'Or  to-morrow  at  one.  We  shall 
meet  there.  Book  a  table  or  you  won't  get  one.  If  they're 
booked  up  already,  give  the  head-waiter  a  couple  of  pounds — 
tactfully — and  say  you  must  have  one.  That's  all  at  present, 
Mr. " 

"Mr.  Archibald  Warley,  of  Dewsbury." 

"And  my  name  is  Dolf  Farmer." 

"Very  well,  Miss  Farmer,"  said  Warley.    He  rang. 

"Tell  Richards  to  bring  round  the  car." 

"Richards  is  waiting,  Sir." 

Mr.  Warley  picked  up  the  despised  opera  hat  and  flung  it 
across  the  room.  Then,  bareheaded,  he  accompanied  Dolf 
to  the  waiting  limousine.  They  travelled  in  silence  through  quiet 
streets  to  Netta's  flat.  Just  before  the  car  drew  up  he  turned 
to  her  in  despair. 

"If  it's  not  an  opera  hat,  what,  for  heaven's  sake,  do  I 
wear?" 

"A  silk  one.    Good-night!"  murmured  Dolf. 

With  a  flutter  she  had  gone.  As  she  crept  up  to  the  flat  on 
the  top  floor  she  laughed. 

"Munitions,"  she  said  softly.  "I  may  stay  at  the  Summer- 
house  after  all.  I  may  get  a  song  and  a  few  lines.  And  Archi- 
bald will  be  what  I  make  of  him  for  a  long  time — oh,  quite  a 
long  time." 


CHAPTER  XII 

ON  a  sun-kissed  morning,  Mr.  Archibald  Warley  awaited  in 
Dolf's  sitting-room  the  coming  of  his  luncheon  guest.  Even- 
tually she  entered  from  her  bedroom  groomed  from  head  to 
foot  with  the  faintly  exaggerated  care  of  the  chorus  girl.  The 
big  hat  accentuated  her  slightness;  the  jingling  tangle  of  ciga- 
rette case,  match-box,  vanity  box,  purse  and  what-not  dangled 
from  her  hand.  She  buttoned  virgin  white  gloves  with  thought- 
ful precision;  her  gown  came  from  Hanover  Square,  her  shoes 
and  stockings  from  Bond  Street.  Archibald  Warley  knew  be- 
cause he  had  paid  for  them. 

He  rose  quickly  to  meet  her.  Dolf  ran  a  wise  glance  over 
his  exterior  and  nodded  imperceptibly. 

"Have  I  got  it  at  last  then?"  he  queried,  smiling  yet  faintly 
anxious.  "Could  you  tell  me  from  the  next  lord  or  colonel  in 
mufti  you  run  across?" 

"Hardly.  Not  from  your  clothes  anyway."  She  consid- 
ered the  lounge  suit  built  in  Savile  Row,  the  hat  from  Bond 
Street,  the  boots  from  Pall  Mall,  the  Jermyn  Street  shirt  and 
hosiery.  "Of  course  these  people  have  a  manner — Never  mind, 
Archie,  you'll  do  very  well.  Take  me  somewhere  jolly,  there's 
a  dear." 

"We're  going  through  the  whole  bag  of  tricks  to-day — lunch, 
tea-dance,  dinner  and  supper  after  the  show,"  he  announced, 
carrying  an  irreproachable  cane  to  his  left  arm-pit  almost  like 
a  soldier. 

"But  I  don't  know  that  I  want  to  .   .   ." 

What  Dolf  had  christened  the  "Dewsbury  look"  darkened 
his  clean-shaved  face. 

139 


140  DOLF 

"My  dear,  well  do  as  I  like  for  once.  Think  a  minute. 
You've  got  a  scene  with  a  song  and  dance  in  the  show  now 
because  I  paid  for  it  to  be  put  on.  I  pay  for  your  clothes  and 
your  hats  and  your  taxis  and  your  meals  at  flash  restaurants. 
I'd  like  a  little  amusement  in  return  for  the  outlay,  if  you  don't 
mind,  and  it  amuses  me  to-day  to  go  through  the  whole  bag  of 
tricks." 

"Very  well,"  she  assented.  His  manner  took  her  back  swiftly 
to  the  days  of  her  childhood  wherein  the  almighty  male  always 
bullied  the  female  and  had  his  way.  Life  runs  in  cycles. 

"The  tea  dance,"  he  went  on  with  satisfaction  as  they  de- 
scended the  stairs,  "is  at  Lady  Mount-Ararat's  place.  You  re- 
member I  helped  her  over  the  Fund  for  Demobilised  V.  A.  D.'s. 
She's  got  a  big  house  in  Belgrave  Square." 

"I  hope  it's  a  decent  floor." 

They  climbed  into  the  big  car,  matching  the  season  with  its 
grey  cord  upholstery  and  massed  violets  in  the  flower  vase.  It 
brought  them  noiselessly  to  the  Carlton  Grill  where  the  for- 
eign omnipotence  waved  beatifying  hands  over  Dolf  and 
forced  himself  to  be  polite  with  Archibald,  a  type  of  young 
man  he  disliked  to  encourage. 

Dolf  nestled  into  her  chair  and  gazed  round  with  a  little 
greedy  sigh  at  a  symphony  of  the  perfect  life.  She  loved  the 
well-bred,  well-dressed  people,  and  their  clear-cut  voices.  Archi- 
bald fell  sadly  short  of  the  standard  in  personality;  clothes 
are  not  everything.  Still,  as  he  said,  he  paid.  She  gave  a 
little  shrug,  smiled  gaily  at  Ferguson  Clyte,  lunching  opposite 
at  the  expense  of  a  Guards'  subaltern  and  began  the  pretty 
girl's  game  of  earning  her  lunch. 

"Talk  to  me,  Archie.    I'm  so  happy.    I  love  it  all  so." 

"You're  rather  a  dear  kid,  Dolf,  only  you  always  want  your 
own  way.  We  get  on  pretty  well  together.  I  wonder — I  hate 
that  girl-pal  of  yours.  Wouldn't  you  like  a  little  flat  of  your 
own?  There's  a  delightful  little  service  flat  to  let  near  mine. 
What  do  you  say?" 


DOLF  141 

He  finished  his  aperitif  and  looked  at  her  steadily.  His  eyes 
were  small  and  held  a  calculating,  covetous  expression.  She 
could  never  get  away  from  the  business  instinct  in  him.  He 
had  made  a  business  of  the  war  and  he  would  make  a  business 
of  her.  He  had  laid  out  his  capital  and  now  he  waited  for 
the  interest. 

She  shrugged  faintly. 

"I  hate  flats,  Archie,  that  I  can't  afford  myself.  I  like  to 
live  on  my  own,  and  be  independent.  Awf'ly  nice  of  you  to 
suggest  it,  though." 

"Independent!"  He  laughed,  rather  noisily  for  the  Carlton 
Grill,  and  a  couple  of  sleek  burnished  heads  turned  curiously. 
"Why,  you've  hardly  got  a  thing  on  I  haven't  paid  for — even 
your  underclothes.  Independent !  Why  stick  at  a  flat  after  all 
I've  bought  you?" 

It  was  the  old,  recurrent  misery  raising  its  hideous  head.  Let 
a  man  have  howsoever  little  and  he  demands  everything.  But 
Dolf  smiled  and  played  idly  with  her  wine-glass. 

"One  has  to  draw  the  line  somewhere.  And  I  don't  think 
the  obligation's  all  on  my  side.  You  wouldn't  be  here  if  it 
wasn't  for  me.  There  wouldn't  have  happened  to  be  a  vacant 
table,  that's  all.  I  sent  you  to  the  right  shops  and  I  certainly 
engineered  the  Mount- Ararat  business.  Also,  dear  thing,  I'm 
teaching  you  how  to  look  after  a  woman.  You  may  think 
you're  perfect,  but  you've  an  awful  lot  to  learn.  You  still 
throw  a  few  presents  in  my  face.  I  have  to  amuse  you  at 
lunch  instead  of  your  amusing  me.  And,  honestly,  there  are 
a  dozen  men  I  could  be  lunching  with  who  were  taught  how 
to  amuse  women  from  their  cradle  upwards." 

He  flushed  a  dark  sulky  red  because  he  knew  she  spoke 
the  truth. 

"You've  no  instinct,  Archie,  dear.  I  can't  give  you  an  in- 
stinct for  the  right  thing.  I  can  only  send  you  to  the  right 
shops  and  the  right  restaurants.  You  do  follow,  don't  you?" 

"Then  why  bother  with  me?" 


142  DOLF 

"I  don't  quite  know."  She  laughed  softly  and  gazed  at  his 
ill-humoured  face  out  of  the  clear  blue  eyes.  "Perhaps  be- 
cause if  you  only  knew,  I'm  giving  you  more  than  you  can  ever 
give  me.  I'm  more  than  independent,  really — you're  in  debt 
to  me  and  you  always  will  be.  I  like  my  independence.  That's 
all." 

Deftly  Dolf  coaxed  him  into  a  brighter  mood.  She  behaved 
very  sweetly  to  him  all  the  afternoon,  shepherding  him  through 
the  dance  tea  with  imperceptible  tact  because  he  always  became 
gauche  and  ferocious  in  society.  In  the  end  they  drifted  back 
to  Netta's  flat,  so  that  Dolf  might  change  into  a  dinner  gown. 

She  left  him  in  the  sitting-room  with  a  cigarette,  a  weekly 
paper  and  an  arm-chair,  passing  through  the  communicating 
door  into  her  bedroom.  She  took  off  her  hat  and  pitched 
it  onto  the  bed,  dropped  into  a  chair  before  the  dressing-table, 
propped  her  chin  on  her  hands  and  stared  at  herself  in  the 
glass  with  a  weary  sigh. 

"Oh,  men,  men,  what  pigs,  what  bores,  what  intolerable  ani- 
mals they  are! "  she  murmured.  "Why  can't  he  see  I'm  tired, 
exhausted,  longing  simply  to  lie  down  and  rest  before  the 
show.  But  no — he  bought  me  a  frock  or  two  and  wrote  a 
cheque  for  the  management  of  the  theatre  and  now  he  imagines 
I'm  his,  body  and  soul.  What  a  price  they  put  on  us,  don't 
they!" 

She  rose  and  slipped  out  of  her  morning  frock,  took  a  little 
soft,  restful  dinner  gown  from  its  wardrobe,  laid  it  on  the 
bed,  and  began  shaking  down  her  fair,  wavy  hair.  Soon  there 
arose  the  rhythmic  swish  of  the  hair  brush  until,  glancing 
into  the  mirror  she  remained  motionless,  one  arm  still  raised 
in  a  half -completed  stroke. 

Archie  Warley  was  standing  behind  her,  his  eyes  full  of  the 
male  hunter's  look,  his  face  reddened  with  crescent  passion. 

Dolf  stared  at  him  more  in  surprise  than  annoyance. 

"What  do  you  want?"  she  asked. 

"I  wan't  a  little  value  for  my  money.    You  look  very  nice 


DOLF  143 

in  those  silk  things — crepe  de  chine  or  whatever  you  call  it. 
I  paid  for  them;  I  s'pose  I've  a  right  to  see  them.  After  all, 
it's  not  much  more  than  hundreds  of  men  see  of  you  on  the 
stage  every  night  for  the  price  of  a  ticket." 

He  took  a  step  towards  her.  She  crossed  over  to  the  ward- 
robe, took  out  a  light  dressing-wrap  and  put  it  on. 

"You  don't  appear  to  understand  that  no  one  has  any  right 
in  a  woman's  bedroom  unless  she  invites  him.  I  haven't  in- 
vited you.  Please  go  out." 

"Oh,  rubbish!"  he  said  irritably,  "we  aren't  children.  You're 
a  chorus  girl.  You  needn't  play  at  innocence.  What  do  you 
take  me  for?  Why  do  you  suppose  I  spend  money  on  you? 
Come  here;  I  want  to  kiss  you." 

"I  wouldn't  let  you  kiss  me  if  you  were  the  last  man  in  the 
world,"  she  said  simply.  "I  don't  suppose  you  even  know  how 
to  kiss  a  girl  decently.  I've  taught  you  what  few  things  you 
do  know,  but  I  don't  think  kisses  come  into  the  bargain.  I 
think  we'd  better  end  our  acquaintance  here.  Please  go." 

"You  seem  to  end  with  a  balance  on  the  right  side,"  he 
jeered. 

"If  there's  anything  of  yours  you  can  see  that  you  par- 
ticularly fancy,  please  take  it,"  she  answered.  "I'm  not  dining 
with  you." 

He  would  have  liked  to  say  many  things  but  he  could  think 
of  nothing  to  say.  He  ebbed  away  out  of  the  room  like  an  ill- 
tempered  child.  She  heard  the  sitting-room  door  and  later 
the  front  door  slam.  Then  she  flung  herself  down  on  the  bed 
and  cried.  Life  seemed  so  cheerless;  and  somehow  he  had 
managed  to  cheapen  men,  even  herself  in  her  own  eyes.  Then 
a  whole  hour  she  lay  face  downward  in  sheer  misery.  Then 
she  bathed  her  face,  drank  a  cup  of  tea  and  began  mechanically 
to  dress  for  the  theatre. 

For  a  fortnight  she  heard  nothing  from  him.  The  girls  at 
the  theatre  commented  openly  or  covertly,  sympathised  or 
laughed  as  their  dispositions  drove  them,  and  in  a  vague  im- 


144  DOLF 

personal  way  Dolf  felt  the  eye  of  Ferguson  Clyte  dwelling  on 
her.  Then  there  came  a  mass  of  violets  to  the  theatre  accom- 
panied by  Archie's  imploring  note.  He  was  a  brute,  an  out- 
cast ;  she  had  been  perfectly  sweet  to  him — would  she  be  sweet 
once  more  and  forgive  him?  He  would  be  nice  always — like 
one  of  the  men  she  was  used  to.  His  luck  was  out;  he  had 
been  ill  and  miserable.  Couldn't  she  forget  and  be  his  friend 
again? 

A  woman  never  forgets;  she  remembers  through  her  emotions 
and  each  leaves  a  spiritual  gramophone  record  on  her  subcon- 
scious mind.  But  Dolf,  twisting  the  note  in  her  considering 
fingers,  decided  to  let  bygones  be  bygones.  She  missed  being 
looked  after,  fetched  and  carried  for,  taken  about,  advertised. 
That  evening  she  sent  a  messenger  boy  home  for  an  evening 
gown  and  went  out  to  supper  and  a  dance  with  Archibald.  The 
improvement  in  his  dancing  astonished  her. 

"I've  been  having  lessons  all  the  time.  Went  to  a  physical 
culture  fellow,  too.  They  pulled  me  together  no  end.  I  wanted 
to  surprise  you,"  he  explained  in  gratified  tones.  His  vanity 
was  singular.  This  compliment  about  his  dancing  put  him  in 
the  best  of  tempers.  Dolf  began  to  enjoy  life. 

"You  must  come  to  a  party  with  me  on  Sunday,"  he  went  on. 
"It's  rather  wicked  and  exciting,  I  believe — something  to  make 
the  eyes  of  the  other  girls  pop.  I  got  onto  it  through  a  man 
I  met  after  we  quarrelled.  Fearful  nut  he  is — got  some  fright- 
ful nutty  relations  down  at  some  castle  in  the  West.  You'd 
love  him;  you  don't  love  me,  do  you,  Dolf,  old  girl?  I'm  a 
beastly,  bullying  money-hoarding  tradesmen,  aren't  I?  But 
I'll  give  you  a  good  time  yet." 

It  was  part  of  the  unevenness  and  indiscipline  of  his  nature 
that  he  lavished  every  possible  gift  and  kindness  on  her  that 
night.  When  they  parted  at  her  street  door  he  would  do 
no  more  than  touch  her  fingers  lightly  with  his  lips.  He  refused 
to  enter  the  flat  and  smoke  a  last  cigarette  in  her  sitting-room. 
He  wanted  to  be  very  good  right  from  the  start. 


DOLF  145 

With  a  girl's  eternal  patience  for  the  stupidities  and  moods 
of  men,  who  are  the  financiers  of  this  earthly  pilgrimage,  Dolf 
smiled,  acquiesced,  snuggled  against  him  for  a  brief,  fascinat- 
ing moment,  and  scuttled  into  the  hall  with  those  swift  escap- 
ing movements  that  are  intended  to  arouse  pursuing  desire  in 
men  and  often  do.  On  the  whole  she  was  glad  to  have  him 
back.  It  had  not  been  a  bad  evening. 

Sunday  brought  the  big  car  round  at  the  unpromising  hour 
of  six-thirty.  They  had  to  dine  before  the  wicked  party  and 
they  dined  alone  in  his  flat,  served  by  the  impeccable  Good- 
son.  Dolf  loved  the  solid  comfort  of  a  man's  rooms.  It 
seemed  more  permanent  than  restaurants. 

The  party  being  too  wicked  for  the  car,  a  taxi  bore  them 
there.  It  left  them  at  an  unpretentious,  respectable-looking 
block  of  flats  converted  into  houses.  Within,  the  conven- 
tionality lapsed;  Dolf  encountered  rooms  distinguished  by 
weird  macabre  decorations  in  black  and  gold  full  of  divans  and 
coffee  stools  and  other  properties  that  suggest  the  East  to 
Westerners  who  have  never  been  there.  A  number  of  curious 
subdued  guests  flitted  to  and  fro  like  souls  wandering  up  and 
down  the  banks  of  the  Styx.  The  outstanding  personalities 
seemed  to  be  Miriam  Faigent,  a  dark  girl  with  a  white  camellia 
face  dressed  in  Turkish  trousers  and  a  swathe  of  silk  about 
her  figure,  and  the  man  with  princely  Devonian  relatives. 

Archibald  Warley  pulled  Dolf  nervously  onto  a  divan, 
brought  coffee  and  cigarettes,  and  fidgetted. 

"It's  rather  a  rag,"  he  explained  with  a  ghastly,  frightened 
smile.  "Dope — opium  you  know.  You  needn't  be  scared — 
quiet  little  place,  absolutely  safe,  'n  all  that.  Thought  I'd  go 
one  better  than  you  at  last.  This  is  more  exciting  than  sup- 
pers at  Giovanni's  and  Golden  Revels  at  the  Albert  Hall, 
what?" 

"Silly,  silly  fool!"  murmured  Dolf,  watching  the  scene  with 
half-fascinated  contempt.  Miriam  Faigent  was  running  her 
fingers  caressingly  through  the  plastered  hair  of  a  good-look- 


I46  DOLF 

ing  boy.  A  Chinese  woman  in  blue  Canton  cotton  appeared 
from  nowhere,  set  up  the  paraphernalia  of  her  business,  and 
cooked  the  little  pellets  of  opium  in  the  lamp  with  deft  in- 
difference. 

Presently  the  pipe  began  to  circulate.  Archibald  Warley 
put  it  to  his  lips,  shuddered,  with  beads  of  sheer  funk  stand- 
ing on  his  forehead,  and  passed  it  to  Dolf.  She  made  pre- 
tence of  inhaling  and  pushed  it  round  the  circle  of  devotees. 
The  rest  seemed  to  be  habitues.  They  were  now  as  content 
as  they  had  been  obviously  bored.  The  good-looking  boy 
stared  into  Miriam's  face  with  glazed,  desirous  eyes. 

"It  cost  me  a  pretty  penny  to  get  us  here,"  whispered  Archi- 
bald Warley. 

Dolf  looked  at  him  consideringly  and  candidly.  It  came 
over  her  that  she  was  a  little  girl  of  his  own  class,  a  bare 
twenty-two  years  old  against  his  twenty-five,  with  a  knowledge 
of  the  world  gleaned  painfully  from  men  far  above  her  social 
niche  who  had  dallied  with  her  for  a  little  while.  All  this 
painful  knowledge  she  had  lavished  on  him  in  return  for  a 
few  gifts  that  cost  mere  money,  in  the  attempt  to  turn  him 
into  a  man  for  some  half-quixotic  reason.  And  as  a  reward 
he  took  her  to  a  dope  party! 

"Let's  get  out  of  this;  I'm  fed  up"  she  said,  and  half  rose. 
But  he  dragged  her  down.  His  nerve  had  gone.  He  mut- 
tered of  a  row,  blackmail,  heaven  knows  what.  And  from 
the  entrance  hall  came  sounds  of  commotion  that  wrinkled 
Miriam  Faigent's  white  brow  in  vague  alarm. 

A  tall,  dapper,  uniformed  person  entered  the  room. 

"I  am  an  inspector  of  police"  he  announced  rather  super- 
fluously. "I  have  reason  to  believe  that  an  illegal  practice, 
to  wit,  opium  smoking,  is  going  on  here.  No  one  must  leave 
the  premises." 

"Damn  you!"  murmured  Dolf  very  bitterly  in  Archibald 
Warley's  ear.  "This  is  your  titled  friend's  doing,  I  s'pose. 
How  much  did  he  take  from  you?  My  dear  boy,  I'm  through 


DOLF  147 

with  you.    You're  too  big  an  anxiety  for  me.     Our  names 
will  look  well  in  the  papers,  won't  they?" 

"My  God!"  he  exclaimed,  "what  will  my  dad  say?  This 
is  what  comes  of  taking  up  with  a  light  girl  on  the  stage!" 

Icy  clear  across  the  stillness  cut  Dolf's  scornful  laugh. 
The  Inspector  paused,  shocked,  in  his  name-taking. 

Finally  after  explanations  and  identifications  he  let  some 
go,  among  them  Dolf  and  her  cavalier.  Safe  in  his  rooms 
she  lay  back  in  one  of  his  deep  arm-chairs,  utterly  con- 
temptuous. 

"For  my  own  sake  I'll  get  you  out  of  it,  Archie,"  she  said  bit- 
terly, "but  to  do  it  I've  got  to  ask  a  favour  of  a  man  I'd 
rather  die  than  ask  anything  from.  Ring  for  Goodson  and 
ask  him  to  get  Sir  Henry  Creagh  on  the  'phone.  He  used  to 
be  a  pal  of  mine.  He  knows  everybody;  he  can  arrange 
anything." 

She  went  away  to  the  telephone  cabinet  in  the  hall  and 
came  back  white-faced  and  dewey-eyed. 

"He's  a  brick  as  usual.  You  needn't  be  frightened,  Archie. 
You  can  sleep  in  peace.  But  this  is  the  end.  Good-bye." 

Then  he  broke,  he  raved,  he  would  not  let  her  go.  She 
stood  eyeing  him  almost  with  pity. 

"I've  learnt  a  lot,  and  paid  to  learn,  but  I  won't  pay  for 
you  as  well,"  she  said  slowly.  "Tell  Goodson  to  get  me  a 
taxi,  please." 

And  so  she  left  him. 

Again  she  faced  life  alone.  Again  the  girls  sympathised 
or  laughed.  Again  the  discerning  eye  of  Ferguson  Clyte 
seemed  to  note  her  unchaperoned  condition,  the  lack  of  money 
lavished  on  her,  the  extinction  of  his  own  perquisites.  Dolf 
knew,  and  feared  with  the  chill,  racking  fear  of  the  girl  who 
plays  her  own  hand  in  the  game  of  life  with  no  cards  but  her 
wits  and  her  looks. 

There  broke  in  on  this  strained  period  of  waiting  the  letter 


148  DOLF 

from  Messrs.  Pether  &  Wells,  Solicitors,  of  Great  Turnstile 
Street,  asking  her  to  call  on  them. 

Dolf  called.  She  knew  instinctively  the  letter  signified  evil 
rather  than  good  and  dressed  simply  in  a  blue  suit,  with  a 
round,  babyish  opening  to  her  silk  shirt. 

Mr.  Pether  received  her  doubtfully.  He  felt  so  sure  she 
was  very  bad,  he  had  a  stern  task  to  perform,  and  Dolf's 
slight  girlishness,  her  candid  eyes,  her  soft  mouth  affected  his 
male  perception  so  very  acutely. 

Mr.  Pether,  tall,  spare,  professional,  opened  the  proceedings 
in  his  most  professional  voice. 

The  old  jackal  was  out  after  its  whelp.  Old  David  Warley, 
of  Dewsbury,  had  heard,  through  a  blackmailer,  of  his  son's 
presence  at  the  opium  party.  Private  detectives  ferreting  out 
the  young  man's  life  in  town,  attributed  his  downfall  to  Dolf. 
There  was  no  actual  evidence  against  her.  Mr.  Warley  senior 
had  instructed  Messrs.  Pether  &  Wells  to  pay  Miss  Farmer 
twenty-five  pounds  on  the  understanding  that  she  never  saw 
or  communicated  with  Mr.  Archibald  Warley  again. 

"I'm  never  likely  to.  He  needs  a  nurse  more  than  a  pal," 
commented  Dolf  in  her  slow  clear  voice.  "You  may  pay  the 
twenty-five  pounds  to  the  Young  Women's  Christian  Associa- 
tion, and  send  me  the  receipt." 

"A  very  proper  decision.  May  I  say  that  we  personally  feel 
that  you — ah! — emerge  from  this  sordid  business  with — er — • 
propriety.  If  ever  you  should  need  legal  assistance — " 

"I  don't  think  I  ever  shall.     Good-morning!" 

At  the  theatre  she  found  a  note  from  Archibald  Warley, 
incoherent,  wild,  unbridled  as  ever. 

"It  was  the  man  who  got  me  into  the  mess  that  told  the 
old  man.  It's  not  your  fault.  You  always  despised  me 
while  you  took  my  money.  I'd  give  my  soul  to  make  you 
love  me,  or  do  something  to  impress  you.  I've  wrecked 
my  life  for  a  common  little  chorus  cat.  If  the  old  man  knew 
I  was  writing  this,  he'd  kill  me.  I  never  loved  any  girl  but 


DOLF  149 

you.  I  was  a  decent  chap  before  you  broke  me  to  stage  doors 
and  flash  restaurants.  .  .  ." 

Dolf  tore  it  into  the  tiniest  fragments. 

"He  was  rotten  from  the  start"  she  murmured.  "He  comes 
from  my  own  sort  of  people.  Our  men  always  want  a  woman 
to  lean  on  and  to  blame  for  any  trouble.  In  our  class  we 
have  to  bear  men  and  then  prop  them  up  all  their  lives.  I 
think  God  hates  us!" 

During  the  first  interval  Ferguson  Clyte  sent  for  her. 

"Miss  Farmer"  he  snapped,  "I'm  not  satisfied  with  you. 
You  aren't  here  just  to  go  on  and  come  off  and  sing  a  little 
and  dance  a  few  steps.  You  ought  to  know  that  the  chorus 
either  fill  the  stalls  or  get  out  of  the  chorus.  What's  the 
matter  with  you?" 

"I've  just  struck  a  bad  patch.  Men  don't  fall  into  your 
arms  every  minute,  you  know,  Mr.  Clyte.  Often  they're  the 
wrong  ones  too,  and  I  hate  being  pawed  about,  and  kisses 
tasting  of  drink,  and  having  my  hair  pulled  down." 

Ferguson  Clyte's  face,  as  before,  shut  up  like  a  rat  trap. 

"This  is  a  theatre,  not  a  Sunday  school.  We  have  to  think 
of  our  shareholders,  many  of  them  women  with  small  in- 
comes who  depend  on  their  dividends  for  a  livelihood.  Your 
notice  expires  in  a  fortnight — unless  you  choose  to  change  your 
mind  and  alter  your  methods." 

"A  fortnight!" 

"There's  hope  yet,  there  must  be,"  she  told  herself.  "I'll 
find  some  way  out  of  this  if  I  think  hard  enough." 

Out  of  her  concentration  an  idea  emerged. 

At  first  she  only  dallied  with  it.  To  ask  Senlake  to  help 
her,  even  if  a  letter  to  his  old  address  should  reach  him, 
after  he  had  gone  so  deliberately  out  of  her  life,  seemed  in- 
tolerable. 

For  a  long  time  she  wondered  whether  his  wife  had  separated 
Guy  and  herself.  Could  she  have  told  him  about  that  visit 
to  Pont  Street? 


ISO  DOLF 

But  too  many  things  had  blurred  the  memory  of  the  epi- 
sode, whereas  the  thing  that  did  stand  out  clearly  was  Sen- 
lake's  real  friendship  for  her. 

Finally  she  wrote  to  him.  She  told  him  briefly  of  all  she 
had  done  and  not  done,  and  explained  her  present  predica- 
ment. 

"You've  always  helped,  even  though  you  didn't  give  advice.  And 
Guy,  I  can't  think  of  any  better  proof  of  how  much  faith  I  have  in 
your  friendship  than  to  write  now,  after  your  long  silence.  Sometimes 
I  think  I  must  have  a  bit  of  something  nice  in  me,  because  I  haven't 
lost  my  faith  in  men  yet.  I  always  expect  to  find  something  good 
ahead,  even  now  when  things  are  all  wrong.  Even  if  you  didn't  see 
me,  if  you  just  wrote,  it  would  help  me  ever  so  much." 

She  put  "Please  forward"  under  his  old  address,  posted 
the  letter  and  began  to  watch  for  a  reply. 

Day  after  day  passed.  Netta  could  not  comprehend  Dolf's 
intense  interest  in  the  postman.  Yet  because  she  -was  in- 
terested, Dolf  could  not  bring  herself  to  explain. 

And  at  last  the  fortnight  was  up.  Shrugging  faintly  she 
went  to  Clyte. 

"All  right,"  she  said  with  a  laugh,  her  eyes  hard  and  reck- 
less, "I've  changed  my  mind.  I  was  a  fool;  I  don't  know 
what  came  over  me.  I'll  do  anything  you  tell  me.  Whom 
do  you  want  me  to  get  off  with, — royalty,  prime  ministers,  or 
what?" 


CHAPTER  XIII 

DOLF,  the  final  touch  of  make-up  achieved,  her  blue  eyes 
deepened  by  a  deft  smudging  of  the  upper  lids,  lit  by  a  spot 
of  scarlet  in  the  very  corner  of  the  eye,  fringed  by  darkened 
lashes,  the  line  of  her  soft  red  lips  additionally  red,  laid  down 
the  powder  puff,  slipped  out  of  her  pale  blue  wrap  and  stood 
considering  herself. 

"It's  all  for  men"  her  thoughts  ran  in  a  bitter,  disillusioned 
vein,  "and  what  do  they  care?  Their  only  idea  is  possession, 
and  once  they've  had  all  they  want  from  a  girl  they  don't 
care  two-pence  about  her.  And  yet  night  after  night,  with 
the  approval  of  a  dear,  respectable  old  world,  we  come  here 
and  fake  ourselves  up  and  fool  around  simply  and  solely  to 
make  men  want  us.  I  s'pose  we're  really  an  advanced  line, 
put  here  so  that  all  the  mothers  and  wives  away  back  at  a 
safe  distance  needn't  know  anything  about  what  men  are 
really  like.  We  keep  the  home-fires  burning  at  the  right  tem- 
perature so  to  speak;  otherwise  they  might  flare  up  occa- 
sionally and  burn  the  whole  outfit  to  the  ground.  We're 
a  kind  of  moral  trouble  squad!" 

Shrugging  faintly,  she  began  to  put  on  the  cream  serge 
frock  decreed  for  the  chorus  in  the  opening  scene  at  Some- 
where-sur-Mer.  The  door  of  the  dressing-room  crashed  open, 
letting  in  the  call-boy's  wail  of  "Ten  minutes — ten  minutes 
ladies,  please."  Netta  Blatchley,  the  proud  possessor  of  a 
two  line-part,  sauntered  up  radiating  that  delicately  brazen 
chic  so  peculiar  to  the  Summerhouse. 

"Well,  dear  darling?"  she  began  spaciously,  for  the  benefit 
of  the  world  at  large  and  leant  easily  against  the  long  bench- 
like  dressing-table.  Then  her  eyes  narrowed  wisely. 

"Got  the  blue  devils,  haven't  you,  Dolf?  Cut  them  out. 

151 


i$2  DOLF 

We  can't  afford  them.  They  lower  one's  face  value.  What's 
the  trouble?" 

Dolf's  lips  curved  into  a  half-smile. 

"I'm  a  butterfly  that's  hurt  its  wing  against  a  hard  world 
to-night.  Don't  take  any  notice.  Anybody  that's  anybody 
in  front?" 

"Nine  dukes,  five  earls  and  sixteen  baronets,  not  to  men- 
tion Guardsmen,"  lied  Netta  cheerfully.  She  lowered  her 
voice.  "And  let  me  tell  you  something  cheerful.  Cynthia 
Kay,  our  fascinating  star,  has  got  it  in  for  you.  I  heard  her* 
talking  to  Clyte  about  you.  She  called  you  'that  washed-out 
little  fair-haired  stick.'  How  she  must  love  you!  Who's 
the  man  you've  taken  away  from  her?" 

Dolf,  hooking  the  corsage  of  her  frock  with  listless  fingers, 
shook  her  head. 

"I  haven't  got  a  man  in  the  world.  There's  only  one  who 
might  be  interested.  He  sits  in  027  and  walks  with  a  stick. 
He's  there  night  after  night  and  never  takes  his  eyes  off  me. 
But  he  never  told  his  love,  as  it  were.  Nothing  from  him 
ever  comes  to  the  stage  door.  Pr'aps  I  just  remind  him  of 
his  little  sister  at  home.  What  a  dear  she  must  bej  " 

"That's  perfectly  easy  to  find  out.  Anyhow,  watch  Cyn- 
thia, and  'member  I've  warned  you.  She's — " 

"Beginners  for  the  first  act,  please"  wailed  the  Voice  from 
Without.  Netta  turned  away  coquettishly. 

"Bye-bye,  dear.     See  you  later." 

The  chorus  whirled  hectically  through  the  doorway,  clat- 
tered on  high  heels  down  steep  stone  steps  and  swirled 
into  the  wings.  An  electric  bulb  changed  colour  by  the  con- 
ductor's desk  and  the  orchestra  swept  into  the  opening  chorus. 
The  curtain  rose,  and  the  Summerhouse's  most  perfect  peaches 
cat-walked  into  a  sea-side  set  with  never  a  care  in  the  world. 

"Here's   where    the    saucy    summer   baby 
Can  beguile  some  tame,  tired  toff; 
She  will  shed  her  frock  or  stocking 


DOLF  153 

Till   she's   awf'Iy   sweet    and   shocking, 
But  her  smile  just  won't  come  off!" 

they  lilted  seductively.  A  ripple  ran  through  the  crowded 
stalls.  The  old,  wild  magic  had  entered  into  men.  The  tall, 
rather  weary  occupant  of  Day  settled  back  comfortably  and 
commenced  his  nightly  worship  of  Dolf 's  fair,  immature  beauty. 
The  happy  evening  had  begun. 

Ferguson  Clyte,  the  stage  manager,  standing  in  the  wings, 
ran  a  reflective  hand  over  his  brilliantined  hair,  glanced  down 
at  his  soigne  person  encased  in  the  dress  clothes  parted  from 
which  no  manager  seems  altogether  natural,  and  thanked  his 
gods  for  the  blessing  of  a  full  house.  Outside  the  stage  door 
under  the  flaring  lights  the  last  taxis  and  private  cars  slurred 
away  with  a  splutter  of  skidding  back  wheels.  Bowing  kit- 
tenishly  to  the  welcoming  roar  of  applause,  Cynthia  Kay 
advanced  down  stage  to  speak  her  celebrated  opening  line: 
"Heaven  looks  good  a  long  way  off,  but  here  we  are!" 

Later,  during  the  interval,  Ferguson  Clyte  sat  at  his  roll- 
top  desk,  breathing  semi-defiance  and  Egyptian  cigarette  smoke 
at  Cynthia  Kay.  Every  two  seconds  he  broke  off  to  hurl 
curses  at  some  interrupter  who  knocked  upon  the  door.  Every 
half  minute  the  telephone  bell  rang  pitilessly.  A  stage  man- 
ager is  a  busy  man;  beads  of  perspiration  began  to  form  on 
Clyte's  pale  forehead. 

"Well  anyway,  have  a  heart"  he  burst  out  at  last.  "Can't 
you  see  I've  enough  on  my  hands  without  your  troubles, 
Cynthia?  Doesn't  a  job  like  mine  make  hell  look  silly? 
Run  along  and  count  your  blessings  and  your  bouquets.  See 
me  to-morrow." 

Cynthia  sat  calmly  on  a  table,  swung  her  legs  negligently 
and  flicked  cigarette  ash  onto  the  carpet. 

"You've  got  to  do  something  about  it  this  minute,  Fer- 
guson. That  fair-haired  little  Dolf-deviPs  put  it  over  the 
man  with  the  limp  in  Day.  He  happens  to  be  Lord  Chalfont, 


154  DOLF 

and  he's  mine,  because  I  want  him,  and  I  had  him  till  she 
came  into  the  show.  I  can't  tell  you  why  he  fancies  her; 
she's  as  ordinary  as  the  pies  that  mother  made,  but  men  are 
all  mad.  'Sides,  he's  been  wounded  and  had  shell-shock.  He 
never  takes  his  eyes  off  her.  You  must  give  Miss  Dolf  Farmer 
the  straight  griffin  about  him,  simply,  as  you  would  to  a  child." 

"Damn  it,  how  can  I?  Isn't  she  here  to  attract  men?  As 
long  as  he  wants  one  of  our  girls  with  a  great  big  want,  do 
I  care  who  she  is?  You've  lost  your  nerve,  Cynthia.  You're 
still  pretty;  you  needn't  worry.  You've  been  giving  him  the 
hard  eye  and  the  cold  face  or  something.  Can't  you  keep  your 
own  end  up  with  a  chorus  girl?  Where  do  I  come  in?" 

"You're  the  original  tin  god  here.  Warn  her  off.  And 
see  she  doesn't  get  any  of  his  love  letters  or  flowers  or  any- 
thing. Have  a  word  with  the  Stage  Door  man.  You  can, 
you  know,  if  you  want  to." 

Clyte  shook  his  head  irritably. 

"Wrong,  wrong,  all  wrong.  That's  the  way  to  make  her 
all  the  keener.  I  don't  believe  she  knows  him  anyway.  I've 
got  a  pretty  good  idea  what  you  beautiful  fiends  do  in  your 
spare  time.  She's  rather  little  Miss  Mouse — doesn't  go  around 
with  anybody  much.  That's  her  charm;  she  makes  all  you 
glad  young  women  look  gladder  by  contrast." 

"Probably  why  he  never  takes  his  eyes  off  her.  He's  got 
a  pious  fit  on  him — the  war  turned  some  men  like  that.  He 
thinks  she's  good  and  he  wants  to  love  a  dear  good  girl. 
And  I'm  evidently  not  good  enough  for  his  lordship." 

Clyte  snatched  up  the  receiver,  barked  viciously  at  some 
distant  innocent  over  the  wire  and  crashed  the  helpless  vul- 
canite back  on  its  hook. 

"Well,  that's  easy.  If  she's  too  good,  make  her  bad.  Get 
her  off  with  George  Darell.  No  girl-pal  of  his  could  possibly 
be  mistaken  for  an  angel.  Then  your  saintly  acquaintance'll 
shudder  back  to  your  side  and  I  shall  be  able  to  get  on  with 


DOLF  155 

what  I'm  paid  to  do.  Now,  for  God's  sake  scatter,  and  leave 
me  to  it!" 

Cynthia  slid  from  the  table,  shook  her  chestnut  head  daintily 
and  smiled  at  him. 

"What  a  brain,  Ferguson!  I  really  believe  you're  right. 
I'll  run  away  and  be  all  butter  and  honey  to  mamma's  good 
little  girl.  But  you've  got  to  do  your  bit  by  her  correspond- 
ence. Don't  forget!" 

She  picked  her  way  out  followed  by  murmured  blasphemy. 
Clyte  turned,  raging,  to  his  legitimate  business.  But  Cynthia, 
in  the  next  interval  sent  a  message  to  Dolf  by  her  maid,  so 
guileless  even  from  one  woman  to  another  that  Dolf,  warned 
already  by  Netta  whose  judgment  she  trusted,  was  deceived, 
and  ran  carelessly  into  the  web  spun  for  her  in  the  largest, 
airiest  dressing-room  the  Summerhouse  possessed. 

Dolf  distrusted  her  own  kind  as  instinctively  as  any  other 
poor  pretty  girl.  She  knew  them  to  be  unscrupulous;  they 
stole  men  from  you  even  if  they  did  not  require  them;  they 
gave  you  half  confidences  as  a  bait  for  whole  ones;  they  copied 
your  clothes  and  envied  your  kisses.  But  there  seemed  no 
need  to  beware  of  Cynthia  Kay  who  had  everything  in  the 
world  she  wanted,  and  looked  it,  leaning  back  in  a  silk-brocade 
chair  before  a  brilliant  dressing-table. 

"Oh,  Miss  Farmer,"  began  Cynthia,  and  smiled,  "I  do  want 
to  ask  you  to  dine  with  me  at  a  friend  of  mine's  flat  on 
Sunday  night  if  you've  nothing  better  to  do.  He's  simply 
crazy  to  meet  you.  I  rather  want  to  do  him  a  good  turn,  so 
if  you  could  come — ?" 

She  pushed  forward  a  vast,  beribboned,  hand-painted  box 
invitingly.  "These  are  some  of  his  chocolates.  He's  got  a 
charming  taste  in  chocolates — and  other  things.  He's  rather 
well  in  with  the  management,  too.  In  fact  he's  frightfully 
useful  all  around." 

Dolf  slid  a  large,  liqueur  chocolate  between  her  lips  and 
looked  thoughtfully  at  Cynthia. 


1 56  DOLF 

"Men  never  give  anything  for  nothing,  do  they?"  she 
queried  at  last.  "There's  always  something  behind  it  all. 
Sometimes  I  hate  men.  They're  so  deadly  selfish.  But  it's 
awf'ly  kind  of  you,  Miss  Kay,  and  I'd  love  to  come,  thank 
you." 

"Well,  you  know  my  flat — in  Knightsbridge,  looking  over 
the  Park.  Drift  along  about  seven  and  I'll  take  you  on. 
It'll  be  rather  a  jolly  crowd.  Bye-bye!" 

Dolf  scurried  back  to  the  chorus  room  deep  in  reflections. 
Throughout  the  last  act  she  lost  the  thread  of  them  because 
the  tall,  crippled  occupant  of  stall  D27  never  took  his  eyes 
from  her,  and  they  were  compelling  eyes.  Once  when  he 
caught  her  glance  he  smiled,  and  the  dark  shadows  of  his 
face  lit  up.  Dolf  wove  a  little  dream  about  him  in  which  he 
became  the  mysterious  man  of  Cynthia's  invitation,  a  chival- 
rous perfect  lover  who  wanted  only  to  make  her  happy,  seek- 
ing nothing  for  himself.  Then  she  sighed  because  that  is  not 
the  way  of  men. 

As  she  and  Netta  brushed  out  their  hair  rather  wearily  in 
the  little  Marylepad  Street  flat,  Dolf  disclosed  her  news. 
Netta  drew  thoughtfully  at  her  cigarette. 

"The  man  in  Day  with  the  smashed  foot  is  Lord  Chalfont. 
He's  a  major  in  the  Cornish  Guards,  and  a  D.S.O.  I  know 
he  never  looks  at  anyone  but  you.  And  I  can  put  two  and 
two  together  and  make  five." 

Dolf  nestled  down  on  the  rug  at  Netta's  feet  in  the  glow 
of  the  gas-fire,  and  shrugged  her  dressing-gown  round  her. 

"Well,  whatever  man  wants  me,  I  hope  he's  a  tiny  bit  de- 
cent," she  said  rather  pathetically.  "I  could  stand  a  little 
real  loving  for  once.  It's  a  dog's  life  sometimes,  Netta  my 
dear." 

Since  women  dress  largely  to  annoy  one  another,  Dolf 
crawled  delicately  from  her  taxi  outside  Cynthia  Kay's  flat 
sheathed  from  waist  to  mid-ankle  in  a  soft,  intriguing  mist 
of  cobweb  pink.  You  do  not  stay  long  at  the  Summerhouse 


DOLF  15? 

unless  you  know  how  to  wear  clothes.  The  lift  attendant 
shepherded  her  respectfully  and  respect  glinted  in  the  eyes  of 
the  smart  maid  who  admitted  her.  From  an  adjacent  bed- 
room Dolf  caught  snatches  of  song,  and  presently  Cynthia: 
swayed  deliciously  through  the  doorway  in  fifty  pounds'  worth 
of  inspired  naughtiness,  openly  triumphant  and  astonishingly 
pleased  with  herself. 

"Hullo,  Dolf!"  she  exclaimed  in  the  clear,  metallic  tones 
of  the  stage  with  the  stage's  insistence  on  consonants.  "Just 
one  wee  little  Martini  before  we  go.  You  look  topping. 
Marcelline — two  cocktails,  quickly." 

"I  love  your  room,"  said  Dolf  dreamily.  She  lay  back  in 
a  downy-soft  arm-chair  and  felt  the  ice-cold,  wicked  little 
drink  flow  like  fire  through  her  veins.  In  a  way  she  was 
going  like  a  beautiful  slave  to  be  inspected  by  some  wealthy 
connoisseur,  but  adventure  beckoned,  and  life  seemed  for 
the  moment  stained  with  rosy  hues  and  shot  with  golden 
lights.  Cynthia  appeared  to  understand,  for  she  gripped  her 
victim's  wrists  and  drew  her  out  of  the  chair. 

"It's  a  perfect  dream  of  a  room  but  I  know  a  better — 
George  DarelFs  drawing-room.  Come  on — the  car's  waiting. 
Ours  for  the  high  spots  and  the  bright  lights!" 

George  Darell,  his  tall,  broad-shouldered  figure  doing  honour 
to  its  perfect  tailoring,  rose  to  meet  them  in  the  softly-lit  hall 
of  his  flat.  The  scented  smoke  of  a  wood  fire  curled  mistily 
up  the  wide  chimney,  unsubstantial  as  the  dreams  a  girl 
might  dream  of  her  future  if  the  monarch  of  this  splendour 
extended  to  her  his  favour.  As  Darrell,  who  knew  why  she 
had  been  brought,  let  his  eyes  wander  over  Dolf,  there  came 
a  momentary  catch  to  his  breath  and  a  light  in  his  eye.  But 
he  only  moved  forward  with  the  most  perfect  charm  of  man- 
ner and  held  out  a  welcoming  hand. 

"It's  really  frightfully  decent  of  you  both  to  turn  out  on  a 
wet  Sunday  night,"  he  said,  and  his  expression  and  his  voice 
blended  into  a  genuine  sincerity  of  gratitude. 


158  DOLF 

Dolf  looked  at  him  with  that  limpid  directness  of  gaze 
that  was  half  her  charm.  She  took  in  the  greying  hair,  the 
handsome,  lined  face,  the  half-weary,  ironical  eyes.  How 
many  toys,  she  thought,  he  must  have  pulled  to  pieces  and  cast 
aside,  and  wondered  rather  petulantly  what  the  process  would 
be  like. 

There  were  other  girls,  other  men,  who  seemed  to  blend 
into  a  vague  background  of  lovely  frocks  set  off  by  the  con- 
ventional male  black  and  white,  but  insensibly  yet  surely 
Cynthia  drifted  away  with  a  dipped-moustached,  obvious 
soldier,  leaving  Dolf  and  George  Darell  as  isolated  as  if  no 
other  human  being  moved  within  a  thousand  yards.  She 
found  herself  sitting  in  a  great  arm-chair  before  the  fire 
with  her  little  satin  feet  propped  on  a  brocaded  foot-stool, 
and  Darell  stood,  tall  and  almost  austere,  with  his  back  to 
the  blaze,  looking  down  at  her  and  talking  in  a  lazy  clear-cut 
voice  with  the  almost  arrogant  ease  of  one  who  has  always 
had  the  world  at  his  disposal. 

"You're  too  intelligent  for  the  Stage,"  he  said  lazily  from 
his  great  height.  "It's  meant  for  stupid  people  who  like  pos- 
ing. You  think  too  much,  and  you  couldn't  pose  if  you  tried. 
Why  do  you  do  what  you  hate  doing?" 

"I  have  to  work,"  she  answered,  faintly  antagonistic  as 
the  novelty  and  the  effect  of  the  little,  wicked  drink  faded. 
"This  is  a  men's  world,  and  I've  only  my  looks.  I'm  not 
clever;  I  can't  do  very  many  things — not  the  kind  of  things 
that  earn  money.  I  understand  clothes  and  how  to  wear  them, 
and  that's  what  you  want  in  the  chorus.  Besides,  what  would 
people  like  you  do  without  us — men  who've  always  had 
everything  money  can  buy?" 

The  corners  of  her  mouth  quivered  into  a  smile  and  she 
gave  him  a  mocking  glance. 

"My  dear  Mr.  Darell,  you're  extraordinarily  ungrateful. 
How  would  you  kill  your  dull  evenings  if  you  couldn't  come 


DOLF  159 

down  to  the  theatre  to  look  at  us,  and  guess  which  would  be 
the  most  fun  to  take  out?" 

"Heaven  knows!"  admitted  Darell,  who  was  clever  with 
women,  and  admired  cleverness  in  them,  laughing  back.  "The 
worst  of  it  is  you  aren't  all  fun.  Some  of  you  are  vain,  most  of 
you  are  stupid,  nearly  all  of  you  are  greedy.  But  you  your- 
self are  too  wise  to  be  too  anything  else.  This  is  my  lucky 
evening  and  I  am  so  glad  I've  met  you.  Come  and  let's 
dine,  and  drink  to  our  long  and  charming  friendship.  I  hope 
it's  going  to  be  long;  I  know  it'll  be  charming." 

It  was  a  gay  affair,  a  revelation  to  Dolf  accustomed  only 
to  meals  in  gilded  restaurants.  The  inspired  simplicity  of 
everything  from  the  food  to  the  table  linen,  all  simple  at  an 
appalling  cost,  fascinated  her.  She  hardly  noticed  what  she 
ate  and  drank  because  it  was  all  too  perfect  to  attract  atten- 
tion. Not  least  perfect  appeared  the  host.  He  brought  to  his 
task  of  being  utterly  charming  the  gifts  and  training  of  a 
life-time.  Dolf,  knowing  him  to  be  unscrupulous,  according 
to  his  reputation,  could  not  bring  herself  to  dislike  him.  In- 
different she  might  be,  but  not  unimpressed. 

Afterwards,  he  took  her,  in  the  manner  of  a  man,  to  show 
her  his  treasures — things  he  had  shot,  trophies  he  had  won 
by  skill  at  games.  She  found  herself  alone  with  him  in  his 
own  room,  smoking  delicious  Egyptian  cigarettes,  listening  idly 
to  his  lazy  gossip.  At  last  there  came  silence,  and  she  felt 
him  looking  at  her.  She  raised  considering  eyes,  and  inter- 
preted the  look.  Her  brain  cleared  to  an  ice-cold,  glittering 
efficiency.  Swords  were  out  at  last  between  them. 

"Dolf,"  he  began  with  the  calm  omnipotence  of  a  man  who 
has  never  denied  himself  anything,  "I  want  to  be  friends  with 
you.  You're  the  most  delightful  thing  I've  met  for  years. 
You  wouldn't  find  me  an  awful  bore.  I've  never  got  par- 
ticularly on  any  woman's  nerves  as  far  as  I  can  remember. 
You'd  discover  I'm  quite  amusing  and  a  good  sort  in  my 
way.  The  only  thing  is,  I'm  too  old  to  spend  ages  and  ages 


160  DOLF 

creating  an  atmosphere  and  working  gradually  upward  from 
acquaintance  to  friendship  and  so  on.  I'm  putting  it  quite 
clearly  from  the  start.  You  won't  mind,  or  be  cross,  will 
you?  I  think  you're  too  clever  for  that.  Only  stupid  people 
are  cross  and  put  on  frills.  It  isn't  done  in  the  best  circles." 

He  stood  smiling  down,  very  tall,  and  good-looking,  and 
experienced  and  confident.  Evidently  he  had  the  habit  of  vic- 
tory. She  took  the  cigarette  from  between  her  lips  and 
answered: 

"You're  quite  right.  I'm  not  a  fool.  I  know  quite  well 
why  I  was  brought  here.  But  I'm  not  a  humbug  either. 
You've  got  to  see  my  point  of  view.  Are  you  going  to  listen?" 

He  nodded,  still  smiling.  She  seemed  an  attractive  variant 
from  the  ordinary  theatrical  type. 

"Well,"  she  went  on  slowly,  "I'll  be  perfectly  frank.  I've 
nothing  to  give  you,  or  sell  you,  as  men  look  at  it.  I  belong 
to  me,  and  all  the  dinners  and  frocks  and  cars  and  this  and 
that  won't  alter  the  fact.  It  depends  entirely  what  you  want. 
I'll  be  friends  with  you  if  you  like;  I'm  not — foolish  wouldn't 
you  call  it? — about  kisses;  I'll  be  the  most  accommodating 
dance  partner,  dinner  guest,  supper  companion,  and  all  that 
sort  of  thing.  But  if  you're  out  for  anything  more  serious, 
let  me  beg  you  to  find  someone  else.  You  know  as  well  as  I 
do  that  it  would  be  frightfully  useful  at  the  theatre  for  me 
to  be  your  friend.  But  I  won't  take  anything  from  you, 
advertisement,  meals,  and  so  forth,  on  false  pretences.  I 
may  have  to  earn  my  living  by  appealing  to  men,  but  I'm 
not  a  hypocrite.  Can  you  understand,  or  don't  you  want  to?" 

The  smile  in  his  eyes  lingered.  His  quick  brain,  wise  in 
the  ways  of  women,  endeavoured  to  riddle  her  attitude  and 
just  failed.  Was  she  very  deep,  or  very  simple?  Very  sincere 
he  refused  to  believe  her,  for  rich  men  seldom  encounter  sin- 
cerity in  women.  But  her  fascination  almost  thrilled  him. 
She  offended  his  fastidious  taste  in  no  smallest  trifle,  and 
in  addition  she  had  intelligence.  As  for  her  reservations — time, 


DOLF  161 

tact  and  temptation  work  wonders.  It  seemed  good  enough 
for  a  start. 

"You've  met  me  on  my  own  ground.  We've  both  been  frank 
to  the  edge  of  brutality.  I  think  we'll  get  on.  Shall  we  be 
friends  and  risk  it?" 

Half  laughing,  half  caressing,  he  took  her  face  between 
his  hands  and  kissed  her.  The  contact  of  her  mouth  thrilled 
him  to  an  unfamiliar  degree,  but  being  subtle  in  the  ways  of 
love-making  he  released  her  gently  and  let  her  go. 

"And  perhaps  we  might  lunch  to-morrow  at  the  Carlton, 
if  you'd  like  it?"  he  said  with  genuine  longing  in  his  voice. 
"Now,  since  it's  very  late,  let's  go  and  find  Cynthia." 

Dolf  went  slowly  past  him  as  he  held  the  door  for  her. 
Her  thought  was  this: 

"I'm  lucky.    He  only  kissed  me  once,  and  then  very  nicely." 

But  if  she  had  told  him  he  would  hardly  have  believed 
her. 

Bond  Street  is  very  heavenly  at  half-past  three  on  a  sum- 
mer afternoon.  To  Dolf,  sauntering  Piccadilly-ward  in  her 
coolest,  most  captivating  frock,  the  sunlight,  the  shop  win- 
dows, the  splendid  silent  cars,  the  warm,  bituminous  scent  of 
London  in  June  brought  a  faint,  sickly  feeling  of  sheer  hap- 
piness. Similar  emotions  seemed  to  stir  the  big  bronzed  man 
limping  towards  her  leaning  heavily  on  a  stick,  for  a  smile  lit 
up  his  rather  sombre  countenance;  he  paused  and  raised  his 
hat. 

"At  last,  thank  God! "  he  exclaimed  fervently.  "Please  don't 
go.  I'm  not  mad,  really.  I've  tried  so  hard  to  see  you,  it 
would  be  deliberate  cruelty  for  you  to  run  away.  Haven't 
you  ever  noticed  me  at  the  theatre?  I  come  and  watch  you 
nearly  ever  night." 

Irresolute  she  stood  trying  to  connect  something  familiar 
about  his  steady  gaze  and  limping  foot  with  other  circum- 
stances. The  truth  dawned  on  her  in  a  flash. 

"You're  the  man  in  D27,"  she  said  mechanically.     "I  re- 


1 62  DOLF 

member  now.  But  you  mustn't  stand  here  talking.  It'll 
make  you — make  you — "  She  glanced  helplessly  at  the  crip- 
pled foot  and  flushed  with  embarrassment.  "It's  so  tiring 
for  you,"  she  ended  with  an  effort. 

Their  eyes  dwelt  on  one  another  beseechingly  as  the  eyes 
of  people  do  who  are  in  perfect  sympathy  and  yet  are  per- 
fect strangers.  They  seemed  to  implore  one  another  mutely 
to  do  something  before  the  passing  moments  tore  them  apart 
still  strangers.  He  jerked  his  head  back  restlessly  and  took 
a  desperate  risk. 

"Do  please  come  and  have  tea  with  me.  I've  so  much  to 
tell  you.  Anywhere  you  like,  but  I'd  rather  it  were  my  own 
place  because — because  I'd  like  to  see  you  there.  May  I?" 

The  ghost  of  a  smile  hovered  round  Dolf's  lips.  They  were 
being  so  tremendously  serious  over  a  mere  matter  of  tea. 
An  answering  smile  lit  up  his  brooding  face  and  grey  eyes. 
A  crawling  taxi  swerved  to  his  raised  hand.  In  a  moment 
they  were  gliding  side  by  side  towards  his  rooms  in  Ryder 
Street,  chance  met,  unexplained,  and  utterly  happy. 

It  happened  to  be  an  exceptional  taxi,  with  real  flowers 
in  the  flower-holder  and  clean  dust  covers  on  the  cushions. 
The  occupant  of  stall  D2y  waved  a  prophetic  hand  at  all 
this  magnificence. 

"An  omen,"  quoth  he,  "of  happy  import.  Aren't  you  pleased 
and  excited,  just  a  little?  I  am;  I  love  it!" 

In  five  minutes  Dolf  found  herself  in  a  man's  rooms  dif- 
fering utterly  from  George  DarelPs.  These  were  simple  to 
the  point  of  austerity.  Her  unknown  host  made  her  welcome, 
gave  her  a  cigarette,  rang  for  tea  and  began  to  explain  himself 
while  an  obviously  ex-soldier  servant  brought  the  tea  equip- 
ment with  the  silent  efficiency  of  his  kind. 

"My  name's  Chalfont,"  he  said  slowly,  sitting  opposite  her 
in  a  state  of  happy  dreaminess.  "I'm  Lord  Chalfont  really, 
but  I  can't  help  it  and  it  doesn't  matter.  I  got  this  foot 
crocked  in  the  war  and  it  seemed  to  spoil  the  whole  of  life  till 


DOLF  163 

I  saw  you  at  the  Summer-house.  Now  I've  begun  to  buck 
up  again  simply  in  order  to  get  to  know  you  somehow.  I've 
done  my  damndest  but  you've  been  rather  unkind,  for  you 
never  answered  a  single  one  of  my  letters.  I  wouldn't  get  any- 
one to  introduce  me  because  I  thought  it  seemed  like  thrust- 
ing myself  on  you.  When  I  met  you  in  Bond  Street  I  couldn't 
help  speaking.  Now  here  we  are.  Do  tell  me  your  name, 
please." 

"I'm  Dolf  Farmer.  But  I  couldn't  answer  your  letters  be- 
cause honestly  I  never  had  one  of  them.  How  did  you  address 
them?" 

"Described  your  frock — the  one  in  Act  III.  They  couldn't 
have  misunderstood.  Dirty  work  somewhere.  Never  mind — 
I've  found  you  at  last.  Are  you  a  small  piece  pleased?  Do 
try  to  be!" 

She  smiled  at  him  frankly  out  of  two  very  sincere 
eyes  and  nodded.  She  thought  of  George  Darell  with  a  sinking 
heart.  Here  sat  a  man  who  would  be  a  friend  in  the  real 
sense  of  the  word,  but  people  like  George  Darell  do  not 
let  go  easily.  It  seemed  so  like  the  careful  working  of  malign 
fate  that  she  asked  unconcernedly  because  she  wanted  to 
know  very  badly: 

"Have  you  met  Cynthia  Kay?" 

"Once.  Once  was  quite  enough.  There  are  some  young 
women  it's  not  good  for  a  man  cursed  with  a  title  to  know. 
Cynthia  is  such  a  young  woman." 

Dolf  smiled  at  him  again,  rather  less  frankly.  Not  for 
nothing  had  Cynthia  produced  George  Darell.  Yet  it  seemed 
such  a  pity  to  have  met  the  beautiful  romance  of  Lord  Chal- 
font,  stall  Day,  a  little,  so  very  little,  too  late. 

"We're  going  to  be  great  pals,  aren't  we?"  he  was  saying 
with  a  wistful  boyishness  oddly  young  for  a  man  in  the  thirties. 
"I'm  due  a  shade  of  happiness  after  a  perfectly  horrible  war, 
and  God  seems  to  have  given  you  the  knack  of  making  me 
absolutely  happy  just  to  look  at  you.  I  daresay  I  appear  a 


1 64  DOLF 

mad  fool,  but  there  it  is.  Try  and  put  up  with  it,  please,  Dolf 
dear.  I  can't  call  you  Miss  Farmer,  can  I?  Personally  I 
possess  half-a-dozen  assorted  names,  but  my  pals  generally 
call  me  Hugh.  Will  you,  if  you  don't  mind?" 

She  nodded,  and  fell  into  a  little  constrained  silence. 

"What's  the  matter,  Dolf?"  he  said  at  last.  "Have  I  wor- 
ried you?  Or  is  there  someone — no,  there  can't  be.  That 
would  simply  crash  everything." 

"His  name's  George  Darell,"  she  explained  slowly,  "and 
Cynthia  introduced  him.  I  don't  care  for  him,  but  there  was 
nobody  else,  then,  and  he  promised  to  be  awfully  good.  I'm 
afraid  he's  very  exclusive  about  a  girl.  You  see  he's  helped 
me  at  the  theatre,  he's  been  good  to  me  in  a  way  and  he's 
most  frightfully  jealous.  He'd  make  trouble  and  be  per- 
fectly impossible.  I  simply  daren't  be  seen  about  with  an- 
other man." 

Chalfont  listened.  He  sat  perfectly  still,  his  face  hardened 
into  an  iron  mask.  When  she  ceased  speaking  he  said: 

"I'm  afraid  that  ends  everything.  I'd  hoped  to  be  so 
happy  with  you  because — because  you're  such  a  dear.  But 
DarelPs  another  matter.  I  knew  him  at  Eton.  He's  not  a 
man  I'd  introduce  to  any  woman  for  whom  I  had  the  least 
regard.  Sorry,  but  you'll  understand  before  you're  through 
with  him.  But  I'm  glad  we  met.  You  see,  I've  had  such  a 
happy  afternoon,  and  they  happen  quite  seldom." 

He  stood  up  awkwardly,  and  she  held  out  her  hand.  A  smile 
lay  in  her  eyes  and  behind  it  tears  struggled  to  break  through. 
Life  seemed  very  miserable,  because  she  liked  him  so,  but 
she  had  promised  and  Darell  would  not  overlook  it. 

"Please  let  me  send  you  home  in  the  car,"  he  begged,  and 
she  let  him  since  it  was  all  she  could  do. 

Outside  her  block  of  flats  in  Marylepad  Street,  Ramage, 
the  chauffeur,  refused  a  tip  with  the  greatest  tact. 

"You'll  not  be  annoyed,  I  know,  Miss,"  he  explained  politely. 
"You  see,  mine's  not  a  place  of  the  ordinary  kind.  Bates — 


DOLF  165 

that's  the  indoor  man — and  me  was  with  the  Major  in  France, 
and  anything  we  can  do  for  'is  friends — if  you  see  what  I 
mean.  Thanking  you  kindly  all  the  same." 

Saluting,  he  swung  the  limousine  deftly  away.  As  she 
climbed  the  stairs  the  smile  faded  from  Dolf 's  eyes  and  at  last 
the  tears  had  it  all  their  own  way. 

"What  on  earth — ?"  exclaimed  Netta. 

And  Dolf  told  her  of  the  conduct  of  Cynthia  Kay. 

"Keeping  back  his  letters — the  lowest  low  thing  one  human 
being  can  do  to  another.  I  used  to  think  perhaps  she  had 
something  against  me  but  I  couldn't  see  why.  And  what  good 
does  it  do  her?  She  can't  have  him — hasn't  a  hope,  from  what 
he  said  to  me!  But  revenge — what  good  would  that  do  me?" 

She  paused,  and  then  came  and  looked  oddly  at  Netta. 

"Netta,  do  you  know,  he  was  a  bit  like — Senlake.  Not 
in  looks,  but  there  was  something  and  I  ought  to  hate  him  for 
that,  because  I  wrote  to  Senlake  about  three  weeks  ago,  and 
he  never  answered.  And  I  know  he  got  the  letter;  it  never 
came  back  to  me." 

She  laughed  ironically. 

"So  that's  that.  Oh,  Netta,"  she  ended  wearily,  "if  I  could 
go  to  bed  and  never,  never  get  up  again!" 

Alone,  Netta  paced  the  room  in  agitation.  Her  face  had 
quite  changed;  in  it  a  sort  of  vicious  defiance  struggled  with 
shame  and  even  horror.  Suddenly  she  went  to  her  desk  and 
took  out  an  unopened  letter. 

It  was  Senlake's  answer,  posted  over  a  fortnight  ago. 

She  held  it  in  trembling  fingers.  "The  lowest  low  thing 
one  human  being  can  do  to  another,"  she  repeated  brokenly. 

Then  something  else  leaped  to  her  mind. 

"Dolf's  attracted  all  the  nicest  men,  always.  If  she's  un- 
happy isn't  it  her  own  fault  for  keeping  this  idea  of  purity, 
when  life's  one  long  struggle  against  men?  I  didn't  mind  once; 
even  now  if  she'd  only  be  sensible  and  treat  life  as — as  I've 
done,  and  most  girls  do,  I'd  be  glad  for  her  to  take  any  man 


i66  DOLF 

she  chooses.  But  always  to  be  the  winner,  take  everything 
and  give  nothing — and  then  to  have  Senlake,  too!  She  calls 
it  friendship  but  sooner  or  later  he'll  want  her;  then  she'll  be 
virtuous  and  refuse,  when  I'd  give  my  soul — 

"No,  let  her  take  Chalfont.  She  can  chuck  Darell.  All 
this  stuff  about  promises  and  honour  is  simply  rot  in  our 
world!  She'll  have  to  face  facts  sooner  or  later,  and  she'd 
better  do  it  now." 

And  telling  herself  that  it  was  for  Dolf's  eventual  good, 
she  replaced  the  letter  in  the  desk,  hiding  it  where  it  had 
lain  before.  Then  with  a  bitter  laugh  she  switched  off  the 
light. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE  moan  of  the  saxophone  died  away  to  silence;  the 
soft,  sibilant  shuffle  of  dancing  feet  on  the  floor  of  the  Embassy 
Club  ceased.  George  Darell  led  Dolf  back  to  his  tea-table 
against  the  wall  of  the  room,  a  faint  yet  obvious  cloud  marring 
the  smoothness  of  his  brow.  Crawling  beside  him  in  her 
narrow  frock  she  felt  the  claws  steal  out  beneath  the  velvet 
of  his  touch,  and  foreboded  the  inevitable  scene.  In  a  word, 
Darell  had  come  up  against  his  limitations. 

"I  hear  you're  to  have  a  song  and  some  lines  written  into 
the  show  at  the  Summerhouse,"  he  said,  playing  abstractedly 
with  his  tea-spoon.  "Quite  a  triumph,  what?" 

Dolf,  who  knew  exactly  why  these  things  had  occurred, 
nodded  laughingly. 

"Yes,  thank  you  so  much.  Clyte's  been  awfully  decent,  too, 
and  Cynthia's  perfectly  sweet.  I'm  a  lucky  girl." 

"But  I,"  he  objected,  "am  not  altogether  a  lucky  man.  I 
stand  on  the  brink  of  paradise.  Like  Moses  on  Mount  Pisgah 
I  survey  the  promised  land  that  will  never  be  mine.  Why 
are  you  so  unkind  to  me,  Dolf?" 

"The  promised  land  wasn't  in  Moses'  contract,  and  there 
was  nothing  about  it  in  yours."  She  smiled  at  him  very 
adorably  because  she  did  not  want  him  to  see  how  he  dis- 
tressed her.  "Remember  I  stipulated  that  there  should  be 
nothing  serious — only  kisses,  and  dinners,  and  dances.  Let's 
stick  to  our  bargain  please,  dear." 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  disdainfully. 

"That  was  a  kind  of  saving  clause  on  your  part  in  case  you 
didn't  care  for  me.  One  realised  it  and  gave  way  accordingly. 
But  we've  travelled  a  long  way  since  then,  dear  lady.  I  like 

167 


168  DOLF 

you  far  too  well  for  these  narrow  limits;  no  man  could  en- 
dure them  indefinitely  who  loved  you  as  much  as  I  do.  Be 
sensible  even  if  you  don't  want  to  be  kind!" 

She  leaned  back  and  looked  at  him  steadily. 

"Did  you  say  love?"  she  queried  with  an  undercurrent  of 
irony  in  her  voice.  "My  dear  George,  you're  far  too  wise 
for  love.  I  do  know  what  I'm  talking  about;  a  man  has 
really  loved  me  before  now,  and  he  didn't  ask  what  you  do, 
either."  She  was  thinking  of  Ralph  Jenings.  "Love  im- 
plies unselfishness,  and  attractive  as  you  are,  you  couldn't 
be  called  unselfish.  Why  should  you  be  when  you  needn't? 
If  I  were  a  man  I  should  be  thoroughly  selfish.  As  I'm  not, 
I  play  the  game  as  far  as  I'm  prepared  to  go,  but  no  further. 
Frankly,  I  meant  what  I  said  on  that  first  evening." 

She  saw  a  faint  angry  colour  darken  his  face,  but  he  kept 
his  temper  admirably. 

"Don't  let's  be  in  a  desperate  hurry.  Dine  with  me  to- 
night at  the  flat  and  cut  the  theatre.  It'll  be  all  right.  Clyte 
knows  me,  and  your  new  part  doesn't  begin  till  next  week." 

She  sighed  ever  so  faintly  and  a  shrug  as  disdainful  as  his 
own  disturbed  the  pure  line  of  her  shoulders. 

"Very  well.  I  warn  you  it  won't  make  the  slightest  differ- 
ence, but  I'll  love  to  dine  with  you  all  the  same.  Will  you 
take  me  home  now?  I  shan't  have  very  much  time  to  change; 
it's  nearly  six  already." 

Outside  his  car  waited,  as  everything  in  life  seemed  to 
await  this  fortunate,  impregnable  person.  During  one  second 
Dolf  had  almost  a  fellow  feeling  for  the  big  Daimler.  She 
also,  in  Darell's  eyes,  had  been  waiting,  available  when  he 
chose  to  beckon.  Darell's  lady  in  waiting!  How  many  be- 
fore her  had  held  that  proud  position? 

He  took  leave  in  the  hall  of  her  block  of  flats  with  his 
usual  careless  charm  dashed  by  an  unspoken  implication 
that  the  particular  woman  he  favoured  must  be  extraordinary 
lucky. 


DOLF  169 

"I'll  call  for  you  in  an  hour,"  he  told  her,  adding  later,  "If 
I  may."  She  nodded,  and  turned  away,  to  climb  slowly  the 
six  flights  of  stairs  between  her  and  solitude. 

By  chance  she  found  Netta  at  home. 

"You  look  a  little  fed  up,"  diagnosed  that  astute  young  lady. 
"I  hope  you're  dining  out  for  there's  nothing  to  eat  in  the 
flat.  I  am." 

Dolf  tore  off  her  frock  with  bitter,  relentless  haste,  let  it 
lie  in  a  heap  where  it  fell  and  flung  herself  on  the  bed. 

"I'm  going  to  have  my  last  dinner  with  Darell,"  she  an- 
nounced curtly.  "He  thinks  he  doesn't  get  a  proper  return 
for  his  kind  attentions.  Well,  he  isn't  going  to  get  anything 
more.  I  played  square;  I  told  him  at  the  start.  I  gave  up 
that  charming  Chalfont  man  because  I'd  promised  Darell. 
And  this  is  what  it  conies  to." 

She  got  up  and  began  brushing  her  hair  savagely.  Netta 
watched  with  a  curious  little  smile. 

"You  played  square — with  him?  Dolf  darling,  what's  come 
over  you?  Your  brain's  giving  way!"  was  her  only  comment. 

The  hands  of  her  tiny  clock  showed  twenty  minutes  to 
seven.  Dolf  wriggled  feverishly  into  a  dinner  gown  and  stooped 
over  satin  slippers.  There  came  a  shrill  vibration  of  the  hall 
door  bell. 

"Oh!"  she  murmured  distractedly,  "that  man  must  jump 
into  his  clothes  head  first.  Can  you  keep  him  amused  for  a 
minute,  Netta?  I'm  nearly  ready." 

But  Netta  came  back  bringing  a  strange  guest  dressed  in 
chauffeur's  livery.  She  almost  thrust  him  into  the  bedroom 
and  Dolf  stood  staring,  powder  puff  in  hand. 

The  chauffeur,  looking  rather  as  if  he  expected  the  feminine 
odds  and  ends  lying  about  the  room  to  spring  up  and  bite 
him,  addressed  Dolf  with  military  directness. 

"You'll  not  remember  me,  Miss.  I'm  Ramage,  Lord  Chal- 
font's  chauffeur,  and  I  drove  you  here  several  weeks  ago. 
The  Major's  very  ill,  Miss.  It's  influenza,  and  his  tern- 


170  DOLF 

perature's  high.  You'll  pardon  the  liberty,  but  he  keeps  calling 
for  you  by  name.  Bates,  the  indoor  man,  told  me.  He  asked 
if  I  remembered  where  you  lived.  You  see,  Miss,  we  thought, 
if  you'll  excuse  me,  if  you'd  come  and  see  the  Major  it  might 
quiet  him,  so  that  he'd  take  a  turn  for  the  better.  I  hope 
I've  not  presumed,  Miss;  but  Bates  and  me  were  with  the 
Major  in  France,  and  we  couldn't  stand  by  and  let  him  go 
out  without — " 

In  spite  of  being  nearly  forty,  with  a  kindly,  humorous  cast 
of  countenance,  Ramage  seemed  unable  to  control  his  voice. 

Dolf  put  down  the  powder  puff  and  tears  came  into  her 
eyes. 

"Of  course  I'll  come  at  once.  Thank  you  for  telling  me." 
She  reached  mechanically  for  a  cloak. 

"I've  got  the  car  waiting,  Miss,"  said  Ramage  and  moved 
towards  the  hall  door.  He  opened  it  to  admit  Darell,  who 
came  forward  to  meet  Dolf  with  faintly-smiling  politeness. 
She  stood  away  from  him,  one  hand  on  the  door. 

"I  can't  dine  with  you,  George.  I'm  sorry  but  I've  got  to 
go.  A  friend  of  mine's  very  ill  and  wants  me.  Please  make 
it  another  night." 

Darell  went  suddenly  quiet,  and  the  smile  faded. 

"This  is  frightfully  sudden.  Is  she  very  bad?  Do  you 
think  there's  anything  you  can  do?" 

In  the  background  Ramage  seemed  to  stiffen  a  little,  like 
a  good  dog  scenting  trouble. 

"At  any  rate  I'll  go  with  you.  My  car's  outside,"  continued 
Darell. 

Dolf's  eyes  met  Ramage's  riveted  on  her  for  a  swift  second. 
Then  she  stepped  across  the  threshold. 

"It's  not  a  girl,  it's  a  man,"  she  said  slowly  in  her  little, 
clear  voice.  "And  his  car's  waiting,  thank  you." 

"Who  is  he?"  asked  Dareil,  deadly  quiet. 

"Lord  Chalfont.    Why?" 

Darell  went  perfectly  white.     Ramage,  who  held  the  door 


DOLF  171 

now,  was  measuring  him,  quite  respectfully,  with  an  expe- 
rienced eye.  All  Ramage  could  think  of  was  the  Major, 
who  might  die  while  this  fool  wasted  time. 

"I  disapprove  of  your  going  to  Lord  Chalfont.  If  you  do 
it  ends  our  friendship,"  came  slowly  from  Darell.  He  stared 
insolently  at  Ramage.  Ramage  stared  back.  He  was  not 
insolent;  he  just  stared.  Dolf's  voice  cut  the  silence. 

"Damn  your  friendship!"  she  said  distinctly.  "I'm  going 
to  him  because  he  never  asked  me  for  anything.  There  are 
men  like  that.  I  don't  suppose  you  ever  meet  them.  They'd 
take  care  you  didn't!" 

She  sprang  down  the  stairs.  With  excessive  politeness 
Ramage  closed  the  door  in  Darell's  face. 

He  took  the  limousine  through  London  with  a  suppressed 
relentlessness  that  comes  to  good  drivers  in  their  extremity. 
And  all  the  while  Dolf  sat  with  her  hands  locked  in  her  lap, 
suffering  in  sympathy  with  the  man  who  wanted  her  as  a 
girl  loves  to  be  wanted,  hating  Darell  because  he  only  looked 
on  her  as  the  toy,  the  kept  woman.  So  she  came  for  the 
second  time  to  Ryder  Street. 

In  some  inscrutable  manner  she  seemed  to  have  been  ex- 
plained beforehand  or  perhaps  Chalfont,  in  his  restless  de- 
lirium, had  done  all  the  explaining.  Bates  received  her  with 
sympathetic  gratitude.  He  led  her  at  once  to  the  sick  room, 
and  she  entered  with  an  un-selfconsciousness  that  made  any 
explanation  unnecessary.  The  doctor  took  one  quick  look 
at  her  and  sighed  inaudibly  his  relief.  He  could  depend  on 
this  girl ;  for  the  rest  he  had  been  a  colonel  in  the  Royal  Army 
Medical  Corps,  and  conventions  worried  him  not  at  all.  The 
night  nurse,  standing  by  the  bed  glanced  up  swiftly,  appeared 
satisfied,  and  went  on  with  her  business.  Four  years'  war- 
service  had  taught  her  never  to  be  surprised  at  anything. 

The  doctor  held  out  a  friendly,  encouraging  hand.  He  felt 
Dolf's  cold  as  ice  in  his  brief  clasp. 

"His  temperature's  a  hundred  and  four  point  five,"  he  whis- 


172  DOLF 

pered.  "He  keeps  calling  for  you.  The  least  thing  may  turn 
the  scale;  otherwise  we've  done  all  we  can.  Will  you  answer 
him  next  time  he  speaks?" 

She  went  silently  to  the  bedside  and  stood  looking  down  at 
Chalfont.  His  face,  dark  with  the  flush  of  a  high  tempera- 
ture, seemed  very  pathetic,  lined  and  sorrowful.  Suddenly 
his  voice  broke  the  silence. 

"Dolf!"  he  murmured,  "Dolf,  I  want  you  so.  Why  don't 
you  answer  my  letters?  Won't  you  come  and  see  me?  I'm 
beastly  ill.  No,  there's  that  other  man.  Oh,  my  God!" 

The  voice  died  away  to  a  groan.  Dolf -sat  down  silently 
on  a  chair  by  the  bed-head  and  took  one  of  his  hot,  dry 
hands  in  hers. 

"It's  all  right,  old  thing,  I'm  here,"  she  said  gently.  "There 
isn't  any  other  man.  I've  sent  him  away." 

The  words  seemed  to  soothe  him,  or  the  touch  of  her  hand, 
for  the  strained  expression  softened.  The  doctor  moved  close 
to  her. 

"Carry  on,"  he  whispered.  "It's  up  to  you  now.  I'm  going 
into  the  next  room,  that's  all." 

From  a  distance  came  the  sound  of  a  church  clock  chiming 
nine  times.  Then,  except  for  the  hushed  murmur  of  traffic 
all  was  still.  The  patient  moved  restlessly,  but  he  clung 
to  Dolf's  hand  and  muttered  less  frequently.  Whenever  he 
called  her  she  answered  him.  The  shaded  light  spread  a  dim 
glow  not  of  this  world  over  the  room.  The  night-nurse  did  her 
work  with  the  automatic  sureness  of  her  kind.  Periodically 
during  the  night  she  brought  Dolf  hot  milk  or  hot  coffee. 
Periodically  she  took  the  patient's  temperature  and  gave  him 
medicine,  straightened  his  pillow,  wiped  the  sweat  from  his 
forehead.  She  appeared  to  be  outside  the  scope  of  life,  death  or 
eternity.  Sometimes  she  smiled  encouragingly  to  Dolf;  she 
seemed  like  something  wound  up  to  go  for  so  many  hours. 

At  midnight  the  doctor  came  in,  nodded  to  Dolf,  took 
Chalfont's  pulse,  and  went  out.  She  felt  an  insane  longing 


DOLF  173 

to  scream.  They  appeared  to  treat  her  not  as  a  human  being, 
but  as  part  of  the  apparatus  of  healing,  greater  than  a  ther- 
mometer but  less  than  a  binaural  stethoscope. 

Chalfont  moved  restlessly  and  his  voice  rose  in  a  despair- 
ing cry.  "Oh  Dolf,"  he  said,  "why  don't  you  come  when  I 
want  you  so?" 

Tears  of  sheer  weariness  and  heart-break  trickled  down  her 
face.  She  bent  over  and  kissed  him  tenderly. 

"I'm  here,  my  dear,  and  you  don't  know  me!"  she  whis- 
pered, and  then  "Hugh  darling,  I  love  you.  Go  to  sleep, 
there's  a  dear." 

He  sighed,  and  the  restless  fit  left  him.  The  night-nurse 
took  a  thermometer,  dipped  it  in  antiseptic,  wiped  it  with 
a  piece  of  sterilised  cotton  wool,  shook  it,  and  read  the  scale 
under  the  shaded  lamp. 

In  the  morning,  at  the  first  twitter  of  birds,  Chalfont  opened 
his  eyes,  looked  up,  and  saw  Dolf. 

"You!"  he  said  feebly.  "Dolf  darling,  how  do  you  come 
to  be  here?  You're  Darell's.  Or  is  it  this  damn'  fever,  and 
you're  not  real?" 

Very  gently  she  stroked  his  damp  hair. 

"I'm  not  Darell's.  I've  broken  with  him,"  she  murmured. 
"You  must  sleep,  dear;  you're  very  tired.  I  promise  not  to  go 
away." 

He  smiled  up  at  her,  closed  his  eyes,  and  slept.  The  doc- 
tor, entering  half-an-hour  later  put  his  fingers  against  Chal- 
font's  wrist,  and  patted  Dolf's  shoulder  almost  affectionately. 
He  helped  her  out  of  the  room,  and  surveyed  her  thought- 
fully in  the  corridor. 

"To  all  intents  and  purposes  you've  saved  that  feller's  life," 
he  said  slowly.  "I'm  extremely  grateful.  We're  very  old 
pals,  he  and  I.  I've  had  a  room  got  ready  for  you,  and  you're 
to  have  a  hot  bath  and  go  to  bed.  They'll  bring  you  break- 
fast and  a  sleeping  draught  and  you're  not  to  get  up  before 
tea  time." 


174  DOLF 

"But—"  she  began.    "Netta— the  theatre— I—" 

He  caught  her  as  she  swayed. 

"Bates  has  telephoned,  and  a  medical  certificate  will  settle 
the  theatre.  Do  as  you're  told,"  he  answered  and  there  seemed 
no  other  alternative. 

However  stern  the  fight,  there  comes  the  inevitable  moment 
when  all  is  achieved,  the  struggle  is  over,  the  bugles  sound 
"Cease  fire!"  and  the  tired  warrior  has  leisure  to  draw  breath 
before  the  next  affray.  Some  such  thought  flickered  in  Dolf's 
brain  when,  a  month  later  she  poured  out  tea  for  Chalfont 
in  his  Ryder  Street  sitting-rom,  a  pale,  convalescent  Chalfont, 
clothed  and  in  his  right  mind,  weary  still,  yet  overcome  with 
gratitude. 

He  leaned  forward,  took  one  of  her  slender  hands  and  held 
it  gently  between  his.  She  felt  the  wild,  sweet,  spiritual  elec- 
tricity flow  from  him  to  her,  and  with  half-closed  eyes  let  it 
steal  over  her  for  a  moment,  marking  one  tiny  halting  place, 
one  oasis  in  life's  desert.  The  strain  of  that  night  when  he 
might  have  died  recurred  to  her,  and  she  let  this  moment  be 
her  reward.  Far  away,  so  it  seemed,  she  heard  him  speaking. 

"Dolf,  you've  been  so  good  to  me.  I  love  you  and  love 
you,  but  I  can  never  love  you  enough.  You're  the  littlest 
thing,  aren't  you?  I  want  so  much  to  take  care  of  you  al- 
ways. Will  you  please  let  me?  They  say  I've  got  to  have 
a  sea  voyage,  but  we  could  be  married  ever  so  soon,  and  let 
the  voyage  be  our  honeymoon.  I'm  an  awful  crock,  I  know, 
but  I  want  you  so,  Dolf." 

She  opened  the  blue  eyes  and  they  were  very  wide  and 
starry.  For  this  man  was  not  as  others,  the  Darells  of  this 
life.  In  his  mouth  were  the  words  'love'  and  'marriage'  and 
they  sounded  very  sweet,  even  as  she  put  them  away  from 
her,  quickly  because  of  the  unbearable  temptation. 

"You're  a  perfect  dear  to  me,  Hugh,"  she  said  slowly,  "but 
you  would  be,  because  you're  you.  I  can't  tell  you  how  much 


DOLF  175 

I  love  you  for  what  you've  said,  the  more  so  as  I  can't  pos- 
sibly marry  you.  But  I  do  thank  you  ever  so  much.  These 
things  mean  such  a  lot  to  a  girl." 

His  face  seemed  to  go  perfectly  blank,  with  all  the  life 
and  eagerness  swept  from  it. 

"You  love  me,  and  you  won't  marry  me?  I  don't  under- 
stand." 

A  very  tender,  adorable  smile  curved  the  corners  of  her 
mouth. 

"My  dear,  you've  been  very  sweet,  but  you're  not  a  bit 
your  own  self,  and  you  never  have  been  since  first  you  saw 
me.  In  the  beginning  you  were  wounded  and  had  shell-shock. 
Now  you've  been  ill  as  well.  For  the  moment  you  think  I'm 
everything  in  the  world  to  you  because  you're  down  and  out, 
and  you  just  cling  to  the  one  idea  of  loving  me.  But  before 
the  war,  when  you  were  perfectly  fit,  you  wouldn't  have 
thought  of  marrying  a  chorus  girl,  would  you?" 

His  pale  face  flushed,  and  she  saw  it,  and  nodded  almost 
imperceptibly. 

"I  don't  care  a  damn — "  he  began. 

"But  I  do,  Hugh.  I  don't  want  you  not  to  care  a  damn  if 
you  do  marry  me.  That's  what  would  spoil  it.  You've  got 
to  look  at  it  from  my  point  of  view.  Women  are  queer,  proud, 
difficult  things,  aren't  they?  It's  been  so  lovely  to  think 
you'd  needed  me  a  certain  amount  and  I  was  able  to  help. 
And  now  it's  over,  so  here's  love,  and  good  luck,  and  I  want 
you  to  be  frightfully  happy." 

He  sat  very  still,  staring  straight  in  front  of  him. 

"Just  the  remains  of  a  man,  done  in  physically,  and  turned 
down  by  the  one  girl — God!  what  an  existence!"  he  mur- 
mured bitterly. 

She  got  up,  slowly  drew  on  one  glove,  and  came  and  rested 
one  hand  on  his  head. 

"You  don't  think  it  was  easy,  do  you?"  she  asked.  "You 
don't  think,  if  I  didn't  love  you  so  that  it  hurts,  I  could  bear 


176  DOLF 

to  leave  you  like  this,  just  because  I  know  it's  good  for  you? 
Good-bye,  Hugh  darling,  and  God  bless  you." 

Outside  in  the  street  the  sunlight  seemed  to  blind  her,  and 
yet  the  world  was  very  dark. 

Late  that  night  as  they  brushed  out  their  hair  together, 
Dolf  suddenly  turned  to  Netta  and  laughed. 

"Rotten  luck  the  show's  coming  off,"  she  said. 

She  paused. 

"Hugh's  going  abroad,  but  he  asked  me  to  marry  him  first, 
and  I  wouldn't.  I  did  do  right,  didn't  I,  Netta?  Say  I  did, 
for  God's  sake!" 

Netta  stared  at  her  and  suddenly  cried, 

"What  do  you  want,  you  fool?" 

Dolf  looked  up  with  amazed  startled  eyes. 

"But  you  know  I—" 

"I  know  that  if  ever  an  utter  fool  drew  the  breath  of  life, 
it's  you."  And  Netta  banged  out  of  the  room. 

Dolf  stared  a  moment,  and  then  sank  down  and  began  to 
sob  helplessly. 

"Everyone — and  now  it's  Netta.  Oh,  what's  the  use,  what's 
the  use!" 

But  presently,  regaining  herself,  she  forgave  Netta. 

"Something's  been  wrong  with  her  for  weeks.  Some  man, 
I  suppose.  Poor  darling!  It'll  wear  off.  She  didn't  mean  it. 
And  I  mustn't  notice."  Then  a  smile  struggled  through  her 
tears.  "He  was  a  perfect  dear  to  me,  and  I'm  frightfully 
happy,  really.  I  am  a,  little  fool,  or  I  wouldn't  be  crying  like 
thisl" 


CHAPTER  XV 

IN  a  quiver  of  twittering  nerves,  a  cloud  of  face-powder,  a 
wild  cacophony  of  near-music  wrung  from  the  orchestra  by  a 
pitiless  musical  director,  with  a  baton  which  turned  every  way, 
like  the  sword  of  the  angel  at  the  gate  of  Eden,  and  a  heart 
cf  flint,  the  semi-final  rehearsal  of  "Naughty  Girl!"  at  the 
Summerhouse  Theatre  fluttered  to  its  close. 

Ferguson  Clyte,  the  stage  manager,  flung  the  remains  of 
his  personality  at  a  lovely  chorus  reduced  as  nearly  to  pulp 
as  a  chorus  can  be. 

"Now  ladies,  for  Heaven's  sake!  Shove  a  little  ginger  into 
it!  Remember  the  Guv'nor's  in  front,  and  he  can  tame  wild 
women,  let  alone  nice  little  girls  scared  of  their  own  voices. 
That  last  number  was  like  a  choir  glee  down  in  the  old  home 
village,  with  the  choir  on  strike.  If  you  can't  shake  blazes  out 
of  this  last  act  the  notice'll  be  up  before  the  thing's  produced 
at  all!" 

Netta  Blatchley  flashed  a  cynical  smile  at  Dolf,  who  seemed 
on  the  point  of  wilting  before  the  managerial  storm. 

"When  in  doubt,  curse  the  chorus,"  proclaimed  Netta,  with 
deep  mock  wisdom.  "Turn  a  blind  eye  on  the  leading  lady's 
breaks,  for  she  can  afford  nerve  storms.  Go  gently  with  the 
star  man  in  case  you  drive  him  to  drink.  But  give  the  chorus 
fits  all  the  time.  That's  why  we're  here." 

A  half-pathetic  smile  curved  Dolf's  mouth.  She  ran  a 
powder-puff  rather  tremulously  over  her  face.  Then  her  blue 
eyes  met  the  laughing  grey  ones  of  the  extremely  good-looking 
chorus  man  who  stood  near,  wearing  perfect  morning  clothes 
as  if  he  had  been  born  in  them,  his  silk  hat  rather  on  the 
back  of  his  head,  raked  slightly  to  the  left.  The  storm  and 

177 


178  DOLF 

stress  of  the  weary  day  seemed  to  have  left  him  utterly  calm 
and  composed. 

"Amen!"  he  murmured  devoutly  in  reply  to  Netta.  "But, 
my  dear  Miss  Dolf  Farmer,  never  turn  a  hair.  It  pleases  Clyte 
and  doesn't  do  you  any  good.  Even  the  Guv'nor  can't  shoot 
us.  He  can  only  give  us  the  benefit  of  his  experience,  real 
or  imaginary.  A  well  preserved  old  gentleman,  but  hardly  a 
man-eater,  what?" 

A  faint  glow  of  returning  confidence  stole  over  Dolf.  To 
the  looker-on  there  was  nothing  extraordinary  about  the  smile 
or  the  words;  to  her  they  carried  a  personal  and  private 
significance.  The  grey  eyes  and  an  undercurrent  in  the  lazy 
voice  were  saying  to  her  in  a  new  and  wonderful  Morse  code: 
"You're  a  darling  and  I  know  it,  and  you  know  I  know  it, 
and  I'm  glad  you  know  I  know."  These  things  are  precious 
to  a  girl. 

"Oh,"  said  Netta  contemptuously,  "you're  on  velvet,  my  dea^c 
man.  The  Hon.  Basil  Wray,  the  noble  aristocrat  now  work- 
ing in  the  Summerhouse  chorus,  is  far  too  good  an  advertise- 
ment to  get  fired.  We  should  miss  the  daily  paragraph  about 
you  in  the  papers." 

The  Hon.  Basil  smiled  sadly. 

"You  are  beautiful  and  full  of  grace;  I'm  plain  and  dread- 
fully clumsy.  Look  at  the  way  I  knock  the  scenery  about. 
They  always  chuck  out  the  unskilled  labour  first.  Hullo — 
we're  on  in  a  second." 

They  were  indeed.  The  orchestra  crashed  into  the  fox- 
trot that  heralded  a  dance  club  scene  at  the  opening  of  the 
last  act.  Dolf,  in  her  wisp-like  afternoon  gown,  slid  thank- 
fully into  the  arms  of  the  Hon.  Basil  Wray,  her  dance  partner. 
He  held  her  perfectly,  and  the  faint,  firm  pressure  seemed  to 
inoculate  her  with  confidence  from  outside,  since  that  within 
her  ebbed  very  low.  Her  stage  experience  eclipsed  his  by  many 
months,  but  the  Hon.  Basil  had  grown  up  in  a  world  in  which 


DOLF  179 

he  was  accustomed  to  do  as  he  pleased  in  his  own  way.  This 
habit  is  priceless  in  any  walk  of  life. 

Because  of  it,  the  Guv'nor,  otherwise  Gillingham  Kent, 
Napoleon  of  musical  enterprises,  sitting  in  the  shrouded  stalls 
among  a  professional  audience  few  and  select,  his  grey  hair 
beautifully  brushed,  his  simple  clothes  faultless  in  their  sim- 
plicity, smoking  cigarette  after  cigarette  in  a  long  tortoise- 
shell  holder,  let  his  introspective  gaze  linger  on  Dolf  with 
approval.  Basil,  who  could  dance  if  he  could  do  nothing  else, 
was  lending  her  that  poise  and  assurance  one  good  dancer 
can  give  another.  Dolf,  happy  in  the  desired  moment,  because 
she  rested  in  the  arms  of  a  man  who  attracted,  admired,  and 
wished  to  please  her,  stood  out  from  other  girls  through  sheer 
happiness  of  circumstances.  From  so  slight  causes  do  great 
results  ensue. 

Gillingham  Kent  turned  to  Clyte  at  his  side,  and  said: 

"Give  me  a  note  of  that  fair  girl's  name — the  one  dancing 
with  Wray.  She's  got  a  style  of  her  own,  personality,  all  that 
sort  of  thing.  I'm  not  at  all  sure  we  haven't  found  a  winner 
in  that  girl.  Otherwise  your  girls  are  damned  awful  and  I'd 
like  to  burn  the  lot  of  them.  And  the  show's  the  biggest  frost 
in  history.  It'll  last  about  a  week." 

From  this  Ferguson  Clyte,  who  knew  the  Guv'nor  very,  very 
well,  gathered  that  he  was  entirely  pleased  and  looked  forward 
to  at  least  a  year's  run. 

"He's  no  good  to  you,"  said  Netta,  examining  critically  a 
ladder  in  an  otherwise  perfectly  good  silk  stocking.  "He's  got 
no  money,  and  expensive  tastes.  Probably  one  of  those  West 
End  society  women's  running  him,  and  you  know  what  that 
means:  she  has  first  call  on  him  and  you  can  amuse  him  in 
his  few  spare  moments.  It  won't  do  you  any  good  with  Clyte 
because  you're  there  to  attract  men  in  the  stalls,  not  men  on 
the  stage.  And  all  these  titled  fellers  who  work,  or  pretend 
to  work,  are  wrong  'uns.  It  means  their  families  have  given 


i8o  DOLF 

them  the  push,  and  if  your  family  doesn't  know  the  truth 
about  you,  who  does?" 

Dolf  sat  back  on  her  heels  before  the  gas  fire.  Their  little 
flat  seemed  less  trivial  than  its  wont.  Her  blue  kimono 
matched  her  eyes,  her  fair  hair  hung  in  a  wavy,  well-brushed 
cloud  over  the  kimono,  and  little  happy  devils  danced  through 
her  veins. 

"I  don't  care.  I  like  him.  I  could  almost  love  him.  When 
he  touches  me  it's  heavenly,  and  he  makes  me  go  all  drunk. 
His  eyes  don't  make  me  cold  when  he  looks  at  me,  like  most 
men's  do,  and  I  don't  have  to  be  on  my  guard  all  the  time. 
You're  worse  than  wise  sometimes,  Netta;  you're  warped, 
morbid,  possessed.  You  know  as  well  as  I  do  one  can  always 
jed  if  a  man's  the  wrong  kind.  Let  me  alone  to  play  with 
my  Basil,  there's  a  dear." 

"Sure  thing.  You  will  anyway.  But  don't  say  I  never  tokj 
you,"  warned  Netta,  and,  as  ever,  warned  in  vain. 

They  were  so  acceptable  in  one  another's  sight.  Dolf, 
meeting  him  in  the  turgid  stream  of  stage-door  traffic,  felt 
suddenly  rested.  A  peace  passing  all  understanding  began  to 
brood  over  her,  peace  with  an  undercurrent  of  thrill.  It  was  so 
obvious  they  could  never  jar  on  one  another.  Little  flames 
flickered  in  her  heart  to  see  that  steady,  half-laughing,  half- 
adoring  glance  steal  out  from  his  grey  eyes.  He  had  for  her 
a  caressing  gentleness  of  manner  very  far  removed  from  the 
free  and  easy  boisterousness  of  the  average  stage  man. 

Netta's  mythical  society  woman  must  have  occupied  very 
little  of  his  time,  for  very  early  they  drifted  into  the  habit 
of  lunching  together.  And  one  day  he  explained  it,  looking  at 
her  thoughtfully  across  a  narrow  table  that  seemed  like  some 
fortunate  island  in  a  crowded  room. 

"Heaven,"  he  said,  "is  simply  a  series  of  little  Soho  restau- 
rants when  the  tables  are  always  just  far  enough  apart.  There 
are  never  more  than  two  people  at  each  table,  and  they've 
always  enough  money  left  for  a  taxi  after  paying  the  bill. 


DOLF  181 

Only  they  never  have  to  pay  it  because  in  heaven  you  go  on 
lunching  forever  and  ever,  and  always  stay  in  that  early, 
dreamy  state  when  it's  quite  perfect  simply  to  be  together. 
There!" 

Dolf  looked  at  him  with  the  friendliest  smile  because  she 
felt  utterly  happy. 

"You're  a  delightful  liar,  Basil.  You  must  have  had  a 
fearful  lot  of  practice,  or  else  I  seem  very  new  to  you.  Every- 
one knows  that  the  early  dreamy  state  never  lasts.  You'll 
fall  in  love  with  me,  or  I  with  you,  or  both  of  us  with  each 
other,  and  suffer  most  awful  torments,  and  get  nowhere.  I 
like  your  idea  of  heaven,  but  this  is  earth.  Didn't  you  know?" 

He  offered  her  another  cigarette  out  of  a  battered  silver 
case,  but  she  shook  her  head. 

"Then  come  out  into  the  Park  and  sit  beside  me  on  a 
green  chair  and  dream  about  mice,"  he  suggested,  with  just 
that  note  of  wanting  her  a  girl  rather  loves.  "It's  all  sun- 
light and  love-in-idleness,  and  very  charming." 

Aureoled  with  blessings  from  a  tipped  waiter  they  wan- 
dered out  in  the  sunshine  and  in  due  season  sat  upon  green 
wooden  chairs  which  require  a  certain  amount  of  sentiment 
to  pad  the  rigours  of  their  outline. 

"Tell  me  about  you,"  began  Dolf  idly.  "You're  so  romantic, 
you  see,  a  beautiful  stranger  not  of  my  world.  What  are  you 
doing  in  a  place  like  the  Summerhouse?" 

He  laid  two  fingers  lightly  on  her  wrist  between  the  end  of 
a  glove  and  the  beginning  of  a  sleeve,  making  that  faint  con- 
tact so  ineffable  for  them  both. 

"Nothing  worth  while  unless  you  like  to  love  me,  dear  thing. 
I've  had  a  little  soldiering,  a  little  sport,  a  little  fun  and  a 
little  love.  Being  a  younger  son  I  haven't  even  a  little  money, 
but  the  fine  old  name,  God  bless  it,  seems  a  bit  of  a  draw  on 
the  stage.  One  day  you'll  come  out  into  the  country  with  me, 
won't  you  please,  and  get  a  surnburnt  little  girl  and  be  told 
what  a  darling  you  are.  Thank  heaven  I  can  still  borrow  a 


i8a  DOLF 

car  now  and  again.  You  don't  mind  my  being  at  the  theatre, 
do  you,  or  are  you  sorry?" 

She  turned  and  looked  at  him  and  their  eyes  met  in  prefect 
steadiness  because  of  that  inscrutable  magic  in  their  relation- 
ship. 

"Fool!"  she  said  with  faint,  adorable  mockery,  "you  know 
Fm.not!" 

His  own  room  in  Gillingham  Kent's  suite  of  offices  im- 
pressed Dolf  more  as  the  half  of  some  historic  castle  than  a 
place  in  which  to  get  work  done.  It  was  a  vast  apartment 
of  carpet,  tapestry,  priceless  old  oak  furniture  and  sombre, 
devastating  pictures.  Behind  the  Tanagra  statuette  in  bronze 
on  a  writing  table  that  looked  as  if  it  weighed  a  ton  sat  the 
grey-haired  theatre  magnate,  striking  a  note  of  complete  sim- 
plicity, recalling  irresistibly  some  scholarly  old  antiquarian 
among  his  treasures. 

Dolf,  entirely  lost  in  a  vast  leather  and  oak  chair  that 
needed  a  feudal  baron  to  set  it  off  worthily,  gazed  at  him 
through  the  smoke  of  his  interminable  cigarettes,  fighting  des- 
perately to  preserve  a  little  of  her  own  personality. 

"Miss  Farmer,"  intoned  his  suave,  velvety  voice,  smooth  and 
rich  as  the  finest  old  Burgundy,  "I  sent  for  you  because  I 
noticed  your  work  at  the  rehearsal  of  'Naughty  Girl ! '  I  want 
to  know  whether  you  take  the  stage  seriously  or  simply  as  a 
shop  window  in  which  to  exhibit  such  physical  attractions  as 
God  has  given  you." 

A  faint  smile  took  the  sting  out  of  his  words.  He  paused 
to  light  another  cigarette. 

"I  want  to  get  on,"  she  replied  slowly,  dwelling  on  him  with 
distant,  thoughtful  eyes.  "Most,  I  suppose  I  want  to  be 
independent  of  men.  So  I  think  I  want  to  take  my  work 
seriously." 

"Without  influence,  the  odds  against  a  chorus  girl  becoming 


DOLF  183 

a  star  are  about  a  thousand  to  one,"  said  Gillingham  Kent  very 
gently. 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"Why  trouble  to  tell  me  that  when  you  know  I've  no  in- 
fluence?" 

"Because  I  want  you  to  have  no  illusions.  What  I  mean  by 
influence  is  a  man  with  money  behind  you.  On  the  other 
hand  you  have  personality  and  character.  You  have  a  cer- 
tain type  of  beauty  which  is  popular  just  now.  If  I  like  I 
can  make  something  of  you  supposing  you  choose  to  work. 
The  questions  are:  Do  I  like,  and  do  you  choose?" 

"There's  no  reason  why  you  should  like — and  there  never 
will  be,"  said  Dolf  in  a  clear-cut  voice.  It  echoed  through  the 
vast  room  with  a  note  of  challenge.  The  expression  on  Kent's 
face  never  varied  by  the  faintest  shade. 

"There  is  more  than  one  type  of  reason,  even  with  theatrical 
producers,  though  you  may  have  discovered  only  one  so  far. 
To  create  a  new  star  would  be  something  of  a  feather  in  my 
cap.  Also  the  star  one  creates  is  less  expensive  as  regards 
salary  than  the  star  one  tempts  away  from  someone  else. 
Shall  I  say  I  have  no  personal  interest  in  you?  I'm  talking 
business.  I  do  choose  to  make  something  of  you;  if  you  like 
to  work  hard  for  three  months  you  shall  have  a  small  part  and 
a  contract.  If  you  continue  to  do  well  there  may  be  few 
limits  for  you.  Are  you  interested,  or  do  I  seem  simply  a  very 
wicked  man?" 

He  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  considered  her  impersonally 
but  very  shrewdly.  She  strove  hard  to  pierce  his  words,  his 
manner,  and  find  the  real  motive  that  lay  behind  them.  But 
she  only  saw  a  calm,  grey-haired  man,  detached  almost  to  the 
verge  of  boredom. 

"I  think — "  she  began  almost  helplessly.  Gillingham  Kent 
put  out  a  white,  deprecating  hand. 

"For  heaven's  sake,  Miss  Farmer,  try  and  be  a  little  more 
— er — metropolitan  in  your  outlook.  Remember  that  hundreds 


184  DOLF 

of  girls  in  my  companies  would  give  soul  and  body,  and  I 
want  neither,  for  the  chance  I'm  offering  you.  If  you  ask 
me  why  I  offer  it,  I  can  only  tell  you  that  you  strike  me  as 
promising  raw  material.  But  if  you'd  rather  remain  raw,  if 
the  state  has  any  particular  virtue  in  your  eyes,  pray  pre- 
serve it.  You  see  what  I  mean,  don't  you?" 

Dolf,  feeling  like  a  stupid  little  girl,  struggled  to  beat  back 
the  tide  of  shamed  scarlet  that  ebbed  into  her  cheeks.  He  had 
got  under  her  guard  at  last.  Evidently  he  saw  her  as  vanity 
incarnate,  so  beautiful,  in  her  own  opinion,  that  every  man 
must  necessarily  be  running  after  her. 

"You  think  me  a  little  fool,"  she  began  abjectly,  "but  to 
us  the  world  isn't  always  a  nice  place,  and  if  we  think  what 
we  do  of  men,  men  taught  us.  But  I'm  frightfully  grateful  to 
you  for  a  generous  offer,  and  I'd  love  to  accept  it  if  I  may." 

He  rose  slowly  to  his  feet  and  if  a  hint  of  triumph  flickered 
into  his  eyes  she  could  not  see  it. 

"My  secretary  will  write  to  you  and  tell  you  all  details. 
I  doubt  if  you  will  see  me  again  for  three  months.  In  the  mean- 
time, work  hard,  and  let  me  wish  you  luck." 

She  went  slowly  from  the  big  block  of  offices,  her  head  full 
of  the  dreams  a  girl  loves  most.  She  saw  herself  famous, 
sought  after,  admired,  adored.  And  in  the  sheer  beauty  of  this 
radiant  vision,  almost  she  believed  in  Gillingham  Kent. 

Neither  ambition,  work,  nor  a  career  can  quench  love  nor 
can  the  floods  drown  it.  For  these  reasons  the  romance  of 
Dolf  and  Basil  Wray  became  the  gossip  of  the  Summerhouse 
Theatre.  The  chorus  gabbled,  the  principals  condescended  a 
languid  curiosity,  and  Clyte  was  neutral.  The  shadow  of  Gil- 
lingham Kent's  interest  brooded  over  Dolf  and  as  long  as  it 
continued  she  might  do  no  wrong. 

Dolf  wondered  occasionally  if  she  were  mad.  "He's  a  man, 
you  little  fool,"  she  told  herself  over  and  over  again.  "How 
many  men  have  you  known,  and  kissed  and  gone  about  with? 
Dozens.  And  how  many  were  genuine,  or  disinterested,  or 


DOLF  185 

unselfish?  Not  one.  Yet  you  dare  to  love,  as  you  call  it, 
this  one!  And  what  is  love,  anyway?" 

Then  she  would  meet  him  again,  and  the  grey  eyes  laughed 
into  her  blue  eyes,  the  lazy  voice  said  something  only  one 
voice  could  say,  with  that  lilt  underlying  it  which  speeded  up 
every  pulse  in  her  body. 

"I  don't  love  you,  Basil,"  she  insisted  breathlessly.  "It's 
propinquity,  sex,  friendship — anything  you  like.  We're  just 
pals,  because — oh,  natural  sympathy  and  all  that.  I  can  talk 
to  you,  and  you  like  to  tell  me  things.  I  don't  believe  in  love 
— I  don't  understand  it;  it's  a  myth — there  isn't  any." 

She  half  leaned  against  the  banisters,  in  the  dimly-lit  hall 
of  the  Marylepad  Street  flats.  He  stood,  hat  in  hand,  smiling 
down  at  her  with  a  species  of  affectionate  mockery.  Then  he 
dropped  the  hat  on  the  floor  and  took  her  face  between  his 
hands. 

"You  don't  love  me,  and  you  look  at  me  with  that  in  your 
eyes!"  he  murmured  scornfully.  "I  don't  love  you,  do  I? — 
and  you  can  look  back  at  me  and  tell  me  so!  Aren't  you  a 
darling  little  liar,  Dolf?  You  know  we  simply  ache  for  one 
another.  If  I  subtract  you,  what  thrill  is  there  left  in  life, 
and  if  you  subtract  me,  where's  the  interest  in  all  the  stretch 
of  lonely  days  ahead?  There's  no  use  fooling  each  other.  We 
might  as  well  be  honest,  mightn't  we,  You?" 

"Basil,"  she  said,  "it's  true,  we  do  need  each  other,  but 
somehow  you  aren't  all  I  have — or  rather,  I  mean  I  have 
something  else  because  of  your  ambition.  Does  it  sound  silly? 
It  came  to  me  with  you.  And  when  Kent  offered  me  my 
chance — though  I  didn't  know  it  at  the  time,  it  was  the  thought 
of  you  that  made  me  accept.  He  said  perhaps  I  had  talent. 
Well,  now  I'm  almost  sure  I  have." 

"I'm  sure  too,"  he  said  with  enthusiasm. 

"But  I  didn't  mean  just  dancing.  I  want  to  act;  does  that 
sound  very  conceited?" 

"Silly!     It's  darling  of  you — and  you'll  surprise  Kent  and 


1 86  DOLF 

everyone  else  one  of  these  days.  Only,  I'm  jealous.  Every 
man  is,  when  his  best  beloved  talks  about  her  career." 

"I  don't  know  that  I  mean  a  career.  BuUwithin  my  limits, 
I  want  to  achieve  something  good,  the  best  I  can  do.  As  for 
your  being  jealous,  ever — "  She  lifted  her  lips,  which  he 
kissed  with  impatient  tenderness,  and  she  kissed  back.  Kisses 
that  are  kisses  cannot  lie.  Then  he  drew  away  resolutely  be- 
fore they  should  catch  fire  from  one  another  and  wake  all 
that  splendid  misery  of  passion  which  would  leave  them  won- 
dering whether  hell  were  heaven  or  heaven  hell. 

"Good-bye  till  Sunday,"  he  said  gently,  holding  both  her 
wrists  and  swaying  either  slowly  from  side  to  side  unwilling 
to  let  her  go.  "On  Sunday  we're  going  out  of  Town  and  I'll 
show  you  the  old  ancestral  home.  On  Sunday  I'll  have  you  all 
to  myself  with  the  sunshine  on  your  face  and  the  wind  blowing 
through  your  hair.  Good-night,  my  darling,  or  I'll  never  let 
you  go!" 

Her  hands  slid  into  his,  gripped  tight,  and  she  fled  up  the 
stairs.  He  watched  her  out  of  sight,  turned  slowly,  lit  a  cig- 
arette, and  went  out  into  an  empty  world. 

"You  fool — what  are  you  doing?"  he  asked  himself  bit- 
terly. "There's  no  end  in  sight,  not  even  a  beginning.  It's 
only  hell  for  you  and  misery  for  her.  You'll  get  to  the  point 
when  kisses  are  no  good,  and  you  can't  have  anything  more; 
if  you  tell  her  why,  you're  doomed,  and  if  you  don't  tell  her, 
you're  damned.  The  niceties  of  the  choice,  my  dear  Basil, 
make  a  micrometer  gauge  look  like  a  sewing  maid's  yard  meas- 
ure, they  do  really." 

Then  his  chin  went  up  and  the  battle-glint  flickered  in  his 
eyes.  "Thy  lips  are  like  a  thread  of  scarlet"  he  murmured 
and  a  little  laugh,  like  light  running  along  a  sword-blade,  dead- 
ly-reckless, broke  from  him. 

"Ah  sweet,  let's  leave  unspoken 
Those  vows  the  fates  gainsay, 
For  all  vows  made  and  broken— 
We  love  but  while  we  may. 


DOLF  187 

Let's  kiss  while  kissing  pleases 
And  cease  when  kisses  pall; 
Perchance  this  time  to-morrow 
We  may  not  love  at  all!" 

he  quoted,  with  neither  enthusiasm  nor  conviction. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THAT  night  after  the  first  act  a  note  reached  Dolf  from  in 
front. 

It  was  unusual  lately  for  her  to  have  notes  and  she  opened 
it  indifferently,  her  mind  elsewhere.  But  her  eyes  widened 
when  she  saw  the  large  scrawled  words. 

"I   shall   wait   to   see   you   after   the   show. 

"THOMAS  WAINWRIGHT." 

During  the  next  act  she  saw  him  at  the  left  near  the  front 
of  the  stalls.  He  was  alone.  He  seemed  very  different  in 
evening  clothes,  almost  handsome,  virile  rather  than  gross. 
But  what  most  amazed  her  was  his  expression,  distinct  from 
that  of  the  men  around  him,  most  of  whose  faces  typified  the 
hunter  in  pursuit  of  his  quarry.  Tom  was  stern,  rebuking; 
and  when  he  looked  at  Dolf  in  her  very  short  skirt  he  positively 
frowned. 

It  infuriated  her  to  remember  how  she  had  posed  before 
him  as  a  rigidly  correct  person  both  at  the  boardinghouse  and 
at  the  hotel  in  Johannesburg.  What  would  he  think  of  her 
secretaryship  now?  Yet  if  he  had  regarded  her  merely  as  a 
chorus  girl  as  did  the  other  men,  and  had  sent  around  cajolingly 
she  would  have  understood.  However,  for  some  reason  he 
wished  to  see  her  and  she  knew  he  would  do  so.  She  got  rid 
of  Basil  and  met  Tom  at  the  stage  entrance. 

The  extreme  simplicity  of  her  street  suit  seemed  to  reassure 
him.  They  walked  on  together  through  the  cool  night  air, 
partly  because  her  head  ached  from  the  stuffiness  of  the  thea- 
tre, more  since  she  could  not  bear  him  in  the  seclusion  of  a 
taxi. 

1 88 


DOLF  189 

He  was  horrified  by  the  show. 

"All  nakedness,  and  shoulder-shaking,  and  doubtful  songs. 
I  don't  know  what  the  world's  coming  to.  The  worst  show 
I  ever  saw  in  my  life.  And  you  in  it!  By  Jove,  I  could 
hardly  believe  my  eyes.  Who  got  you  in?  Sir  Henry  Creagh?" 

Startled,  she  gazed  at  him  haughtily. 

"What  do  you  know  about  Sir  Henry  Creagh?" 

"Well,  you  don't  suppose  I  swallowed  all  that  story  about 
the  secretary  business,  do  you?  And  anyhow  you  told  me 
to  look  in  the  Carlton  register,  so  I  did.  Why  didn't  you  tell 
me  your  author  had  a  title?" 

"I  don't  see  why  I  should  have,  or  why  I  need  care  what  you 
think,  Tom,"  she  said  icily. 

"You  needn't  snap  me  up,"  he  retorted.  In  his  heart  he 
always  believed  against  his  judgment  that  this  girl  was  truth- 
ful. "You  were  his  secretary,  then.  Only — " 

"Well?" 

"You'll  admit  it's  rather  a  come-down, — this." 

"It  depends  on  the  point  of  view.  In  the  first  place  no  one 
but  myself  had  anything  to  do  with  my  having  this  part  in 
the  show.  I  was  working  hard  and  Mr.  Kent  saw  my  work 
and  gave  me  a  part  to  see  if  I'd  develop  more  of  the  talent  he 
thought  I  had.  And  if  I  work  hard  enough." —  She  proceeded 
to  explain  her  own  dreams.  By  the  time  she  had  finished  she 
had  made  Tom  see  her  as  a  budding  star,  a  career-maker  like 
him,  aiming  at  a  goal  the  road  to  which  was  hard  work.  This 
appealed  to  him  supremely.  There  was  a  new  respect  in  his 
tone  when  he  said, 

"Only  it's  a  shame  to  be  in  a  common  musical  show!" 

"No  one  will  worry  about  my  past  when  I'm  famous,  and 
I  certainly  shan't  myself.  A  lot  of  us  forget  about  our  begin- 
nings as  we  go  on." 

He  laughed.  "You  hit  the  nail  square  on  the  head.  But 
I  don't  know  that  I'm  so  ashamed  of  my  start  as  a  village 
grocer." 


igo  DOLF 

"No,  but  you  don't  make  it  the  chief  topic  of  conversation. 
I  turn  off  this  way  to  go  home." 

"Well,  mayn't  I  come  with  you?"  he  asked  in  a  tone  just 
between  command  and  request. 

"Tom,  I'm  terribly  tired.  I  work  hard  you  see.  I  have  no 
social  life  at  all.  Later  on,  when  we've  both  arrived,  we'll 
meet  again  and  you  shall  bring  your  wife,  the  earl's  daughter, 
to  my  parties." 

His  loud  laugh  was  faintly  reminiscent  of  his  earlier  days. 
But  he  answered  with  a  touch  of  sincerity. 

"All  right;  I  won't  forget." 

When  Sunday  came  Basil  and  Dolf  went  out  of  town  to- 
gether. It  was  the  old,  old  story  of  a  man  and  girl,  a  smooth- 
running  car  and  a  ribbon  of  endless  road.  In  other  ages  it 
has  been  a  coach,  a  chariot,  two  horses,  what  you  will,  but 
the  actors  in  the  drama  are  always  a  man  and  a  woman  escap- 
ing from  a  world  they  know  and  avoid  into  another  they  know 
not  and  desire. 

"We'll  have  the  place  to  ourselves,"  he  explained.  "For  this 
afternoon  at  least  you  shall  be  mistress  of  High  Court.  My 
father's  very  old,  and  he  spends  most  of  his  time  in  the  South 
of  France.  Bill,  my  elder  brother,  is  in  the  United  States,  at- 
tached to  the  Embassy.  Very  sad,  but  it  suits  you  and  me 
quite  well." 

"Yes,"  answered  Dolf,  turning  to  him  and  smiling  in  the 
abandoned  fashion  of  the  utterly  care-free,  "it  suits  us  awfully 
well.  Everything  does,  Basil  darling.  That's  our  chief  trouble. 
When  we're  together,  we're  always  happy.  There  must  be  a 
catch  in  it  somewhere." 

For  answer  he  unleashed  the  power  of  forty  horses,  and  they 
tore  headlong  into  Buckinghamshire.  There  they  came  to  a 
green  valley  with  a  river  running  by,  and  half-way  up  one 
slope  a  grey  stone  mansion,  set  by  a  master  hand  in  surround- 
ings of  perfect  peace.  A  long,  tree-bordered  avenue  wound 
imperceptibly  from  the  high  road.  Basil  stopped  the  car  in 


DOLF  191 

front  of  a  massive  entrance,  and  Dolf  stepped  out  into  a 
world  she  hardly  knew  even  by  hearsay. 

The  housekeeper  received  them  with  black  silk  stateliness, 
apologised  for  the  sheeted  gloom  of  many  rooms,  ascertained 
their  wishes  regarding  lunch,  and  left  them  together.  In  the 
library,  looking  out  over  terraced  gardens,  Basil  lit  Dolf's 
cigarette  and  his  own,  and  went  into  half-painful  revelations. 

"You  see,  I'm  rather  the  bad  lad  of  the  family.  I  was  always 
in  some  hot  water  or  other  and  though  Bill's  a  great  sport, 
my  father  never  mentions  me,  so  to  speak,  and  I'm  not  en- 
couraged here.  This  stage  stunt  simply  makes  him  vomit. 
That's  why  all  the  servants  are  the  least  bit  sticky.  They 
like  me  quite  well,  but  they're  afraid  it  might  mean  trouble 
if  the  guv'nor  knew  I  was  here.  But  I  simply  had  to  show 
you  the  place.  We've  been  here  for  generations.  That's  partly 
why  I  love  it  all  so." 

His  grey  eyes  stared  out  of  the  French  windows  into  in- 
finite distances,  till  Dolf  went  up  to  him  and  put  her  arms 
round  his  neck. 

"I  love  you,"  she  said  simply.  "You're  not  really  wicked. 
You're  just  a  darling,  and  you  never  did  anything  very  wrong, 
I  think  it's  mostly  because  you  love  life,  and  girls  perhaps, 
and  the  things  you  like,  too  acutely.  Most  people  cut  their 
loves  and  their  likes  according  to  the  world's  pattern.  It's 
very  safe  and  worthy  of  them,  and  deadly  dull.  You'll  never 
do  that  and  so  you'll  suffer,  and  make  other  people  suffer 
pr'aps,  but  you'll  get,  and  they'll  get,  things  in  return  neither 
would  ever  have  had  otherwise.  And  after  all  we  have  to  buy 
every  ounce  of  happiness  in  this  life,  and  how  expensive 
it  is!" 

He  gathered  the  fair  head  against  his  heart,  and  it  rested 
there,  and  they  became  very  still.  For  after  all,  they  were 
but  free-lances  tilting  against  a  hostile  world,  and  the  love 
of  all  such  is  wild  love,  hunted  and  harried,  and  seldom  at 


IQ2  DOLF 

rest.  Its  few  brief  intervals  of  peace,  unspeakably  dear,  are 
not  to  be  despised. 

All  the  afternoon  she  stayed  with  him  in  the  utter  stillness 
of  woods  that  grew  down  to  the  river  bank,  with  the  sunshine 
on  her  face  and  the  wind  blowing  through  her  hair,  and  was 
kissed  a  little  and  caressed  a  little,  these  things  being  finite 
symbols  of  infinite  homage,  even  as  that  tribute  of  gold  which 
Emperors  of  the  East  touch  and  remit. 

Afterwards  they  returned,  setting  their  course  toward  the  be- 
ginning of  the  endless  ribbon  of  road,  leaving  adventure  be- 
hind them,  with  only  the  routine  of  every  day  in  prospect. 

Sorrowfully  in  the  dim  hall-way  of  Dolf's  flat  they  added 
one  more  to  a  long  line  of  woeful  partings. 

Three  months  from  the  date  of  his  first  interview,  Gilling- 
ham  Kent  asked  Dolf  to  dine  at  his  house  in  Bury  Street.  It 
was  in  its  way  more  a  command  than  an  invitation.  Basil 
nodded  thoughtfully  on  hearing  the  news. 

"Don't  be  hasty  with  him  whatever  happens,  kiddy  dear," 
he  advised.  "The  world's  a  hard  place  and  old  gentlemen 
are  amenable  to  careful  handling.  I  doubt  if  any  man,  ex- 
cept a  select  few  who  often  meet  violent  deaths,  ever  really 
means  to  be  a  brute.  They  usually  are,  but  it's  absence  of 
mind  with  most.  Men's  minds  are  conspicuous  by  their  ab- 
sence, darling." 

She  found  herself,  not  unexpectedly,  the  only  guest.  They 
ate  in  a  small  room,  cunningly  lighted,  a  perfectly  arranged 
meal  perfectly  served.  He  recommended  Dolf  a  light  white 
wine  and  drank  mineral  water  himself.  In  the  hour  that  dinner 
lasted  she  came  to  understand  why  Gillingham  Kent  in  his 
own  world  had  become  a  great  man. 

"Tell  me  what  you've  done,"  he  said  in  his  velvet  voice. 
"Have  your  dancing  and  singing  improved?  Are  your  teachers 
satisfied?" 

Dolf  leaned  her  chin  on  her  hands.    The  pure  line  of  bare 


DOLF  193 

neck  and  shoulder  gleamed  softly  in  the  shaded  glow  of  electric 
light. 

"I've  done  my  very  best — gone  all  out,"  she  replied  slowly. 
"Probably  I'm  not  a  genius,  but  hard  work  helps,  doesn't 
it?" 

"A  genius  can't  succeed  without  it.  No  one  drifts  into 
fame.  Listen,  and  I'll  tell  you." 

She  listened.  He  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  analysed  his 
career  remorselessly  for  her  benefit.  He  told  her  of  things 
he  had  counted  as  certain  successes  which  had  failed,  and 
failures  redeemed  from  failure  and  become  successes.  He  criti- 
cised stage  personalities  ruthlessly  and  exposed  their  weak 
points.  She  saw  him  no  longer  a  dreamy,  cigarette-smoking  old 
gentleman,  but  a  man  who  knew  his  job  from  A  to  Z,  who 
would  be  right  nine  times  out  of  ten.  For  some  reason  she 
could  not  fathom,  he  made  her  a  present  of  a  life-time's  ex- 
perience. He  left  her  breathless  and  admiring. 

Subconsciously,  all  through  the  meal  she  thought  of  Basil, 
who  coloured  every  phase  of  her  life,  because,  loving  him  as  she 
did,  knowing  he  loved  her,  life  had  no  interest  apart  from 
their  linked  personalities.  Wherever  she  went  she  took  Basil 
with  her. 

"Now,"  said  Gillingham  Kent,  when  the  coffee  had  gone  its 
way,  "you  shall  dance  for  me  and  I'll  tell  you  how  you've 
succeeded." 

"But  my  frock!"  she  objected,  smiling.  "It's  only  suitable 
for  ball-room  dancing." 

"You'll  find  your  stage  costume  upstairs.  Go  and  put  it 
on."  He  rang  for  a  maid  to  help  her  dress.  "I  shall  be  in 
the  drawing-room.  It  has  a  gramophone  and  a  parquet  floor." 

She  came  down,  nervous  and  determined,  to  discover  him 
seated  on  a  settee  in  the  big  drawing-room.  A  cleared  space 
at  one  end  gave  her  room.  He  got  up  and  set  the  gramophone 
playing  the  special  dance  number  from  "Naughty  Girl ! "  Then 


194  DOLF 

he  sank  back  on  the  settee  and  watched  her  out  of  deep-set 
eyes. 

With  heart  beating  wildly,  and  the  trained  smile  of  the 
professional  dancer  upon  her  lips,  Dolf  flung  herself  into  the 
music.  She  had  no  foot-lights,  no  audience,  no  atmosphere, 
no  sympathy.  She  was  simply  a  nerve-ridden,  determined  girl, 
who  tossed  her  slender  beauty  to  and  fro  with  all  the  art  she 
had  been  taught  and  all  the  natural  grace  of  slender  limbs  and 
adorable  lines.  And,  with  the  inspiration  of  a  girl  in  love,  she 
forgot  Gillingham  Kent  motionless  on  the  settee.  She  danced 
for  Basil  alone.  In  imagination  his  arms  supported  her,  his 
steps  matched  hers,  for  his  sake  she  threw  all  her  soul  into  her 
task. 

The  music  died  away  into  the  hiss  of  needle  on  wax.  Gilling- 
ham Kent  rose  and  stopped  the  clockwork. 

"Come  here,  Dolf! "  he  said  abruptly. 

She  came  to  him  noiselessly  on  satin-shod  feet,  her  cheeks 
flushed,  her  breast  rising  and  falling  quickly.  He  put  his  arms 
round  her,  and  she  was  conscious  of  an  amazing  vitality  that 
gave  her  another  clue  to  this  extraordinary  man's  success. 

"You  perfect  darling,"  he  said  slowly  and  deliberately.  "Do 
you  know  why  I  sent  you  away  for  three  months  to  be  taught 
this  and  that?  I  knew  you  were  beautiful,  but  beauty's  not 
enough  for  me,  nor  youth  either.  I  want  character  as  well. 
You've  got  it,  for  you  haven't  wasted  a  moment  of  those 
months.  I  can  buy  what's  called  love,  but  no  one  can  buy  char- 
acter. It  has  to  be  discovered,  and  there's  not  much  available. 
You  know  I  want  you,  of  course.  Who  could  help  it?  You 
can  give  me  back  youth — the  very  air  you  breathe  radiates  it. 
But  I  don't  want  it  for  nothing.  You  shall  have  anything  you 
choose.  You're  ambitious — I'll  give  you  a  career  that  any  star 
in  existence  will  envy.  You  shall  have  London  at  your  feet. 
Money  won't  even  interest  you.  Men  will  snarl  and  quarrel  for 
you.  And  you  won't  refuse  because  I  won't  let  you!" 

He  kissed  her  passionately  and  her  brain,  diamond  keen  and 


DOLF  195 

cold,  worked  at  lightning  speed  for  her  lover  and  herself.  What 
had  Basil  said?  "Don't  be  hasty  with  him  .  .  .  old  gen- 
tlemen are  amenable  to  careful  handling  ..." 

"Have  you  a  lover?"  demanded  Kent  swiftly. 

She  lowered  swift  lids  over  the  blue  eyes. 

"There  are  always  men,  aren't  there?"  drawled  her  clear-cut 
voice. 

"I  mean  any  particular  man?  Is  there?  Well,  never  mind. 
I  can  arrange  his  affairs,  if  they  need  arranging.  Oh,  of  course, 
there  was  some  story  about  some  person  in  the  Summerhouse 
chorus.  But  you're  probably  tired  of  him  already,  and  in  any 
case  you  can  break  with  him  as  gently  as  you  choose." 

His  fingers  strayed  through  her  fair  hair;  she  looked  him 
steadily  in  the  eyes  for  one  second.  She  saw  in  them  a  per- 
sonality absolutely  ruthless  except  for  one  particular.  He 
would  never  really  be  a  brute  to  any  woman  for  whom  he  had 
the  least  regard.  It  was  his  one  weakness  on  which  she  must 
play,  for  without  men's  weaknesses  a  girl  would  have  no  chance 
at  all. 

Alone  in  her  little  room  that  night  she  gazed  long  and  earn- 
estly at  Basil's  portrait,  with  an  expression  in  her  eyes  she 
would  never  have  let  him  see. 

"Darling,  you  do  forgive  me,  don't  you?  I  did  it  for  Us," 
she  murmured  over  and  over  again. 

A  woman  in  a  blue  suit  that  owed  existence  to  a  country 
tailor  took  shelter  thankfully  in  the  entrance  of  the  Marylepad 
Street  flats,  furled  her  umbrella  and  shook  the  raindrops  meth- 
odically from  its  folds.  Then,  with  the  quiet  purposefulness  of 
the  country-bred,  she  began  her  upward  climb. 

Dolf  herself  opened  the  door;  the  strange  girl  surveyed  her 
with  slow  deliberation,  and  half  nodded  as  if  expressing  some 
preconceived  impression. 

"I  should  like  to  speak  to  Miss  Dolf  Farmer,"  she  began  in 


ig6  DOLF 

the  sing-song,  soft  voice  of  the  country.    "Tell  her  it's  Mrs. 
Wray— Mrs.  Basil  Wray." 

All  the  blood  seemed  to  ebb  from  Dolf's  heart  in  dreadful 
waves  of  weakness.  Then  it  flowed  back,  and  a  desperate  im- 
pulse of  destruction  seized  her.  She  longed  to  take  this  quiet, 
dowdy  girl's  head  and  dash  it  to  pieces  against  the  wall.  But 
she  only  said:  "I'm  Dolf  Farmer.  Won't  you  come  in?"  and 
led  the  stranger  into  Netta's  little  gimcrack  sitting-room. 

Mrs.  Wray  followed  on  placid  feet  and  sat  diffidently  on  an 
unsubstantial  chair.  She  looked  about  with  the  obvious  relish 
of  one  who  finds  herself  in  new  surroundings,  and  then  came 
straight  to  the  point. 

"My  friend  Mrs.  Marshall,  the  housekeeper  at  High  Court, 
wrote  and  told  me  my  husband  is  going  about  with  you.  She 
said  you  seemed  fond  of  one  another  and  I  thought  I  ought 
to  let  you  know  Basil's  married.  I  don't  suppose  he  told  you?" 

Dolf  said  nothing.  She  stood  perfectly  still,  gazing  at  her 
visitor  with  a  sort  of  incredulous  horror.  Mrs.  Wray  half 
nodded  again,  as  if  in  confirmation  of  an  already  established 
fact. 

"He  didn't  mean  any  harm  by  not  telling  you,"  she  went 
on  simply.  "I  don't  suppose  he  had  the  heart.  You  see, 
Basil's  romantic  and  when  he  falls  in  love  he  takes  it  hard. 
I  live  down  in  the  country  and  Basil  makes  me  an  allowance. 
Of  course  it  was  ridiculous  of  him  to  marry  me,  but  he  insisted ; 
that's  his  romance.  We  don't  live  together  now.  He's  a  genr 
tleman  and  I'm  not  a  bit  suited  to  him.  Old  Lord  Fording- 
bridge  was  dreadfully  angry  about  it.  But  you  can't  stand 
against  Basil  when  he's  in  love,  and  he  insisted  I  should  marry 
him.  I  was  a  lady's  maid  at  High  Court  at  the  time  and  Basil 
was  only  a  boy,  but  most  awfully  handsome.  First  we  were 
lovers,  and  then  he  would  marry  me.  And  I  thought  I'd  come 
and  tell  you  before  you  got  too  much  in  love  with  him.  It's 
awfully  easy  to  love  Basil  if  he  loves  you.  I  hope  I  haven't 
done  wrong  in  any  way?" 


DOLF  197 

Dolf  heard  her  own  voice  saying,  a  long  way  off: 

"No,  you  haven't  done  wrong.  Thank  you  for  coming. 
You're  very  pretty  and  I  don't  wonder  he — married  you. 
Won't  you  have  tea  before  you  go?" 

"Well,  thank  you,"  said  Mrs.  Basil  Wray,  "I  think,  since 
you're  so  kind,  I  would  like  a  cup.  It's  dreadful  weather  to- 
day, isn't  it?" 

After  Dolf  had  made  tea,  brought  it,  poured  it  out,  and  seen 
her  visitor  leave,  she  sat  by  the  window,  her  hands  clasped 
around  her  knee,  trying  to  bear  the  frightful  ache  in  her 
breast  that  seemed  as  if  it  would  never  depart  from  her  in 
this  life. 

"If  he'd  only  told  me,"  she  murmured  over  and  over  again. 
"If  he  wanted  me  it  wouldn't  have  made  any  difference.  He 
could  have  had  me  if  he'd  liked.  I'm  not  mean.  I  wouldn't 
for  any  other  man  God  ever  made,  but  I  loved  Basil  so." 

Tears  welled  from  her  eyes  and  ran  helplessly  down  her 
face.  She  felt  the  most  forlorn  creature  in  all  the  wide  world. 
And  upon  her  misery  there  intruded  of  all  figures  the  author  of 
it,  tall  and  desperately  good-looking,  in  a  new  grey  tweed 
suit,  the  very  pink  and  flower  of  male  grooming. 

"Congratulate  me,  darling,"  he  began.  "Dear  old  Gilling- 
ham  Kent — my  God!  Dolf,  what's  the  matter?" 

"Nothing,"  she  answered  drearily.  "Only  your  wife's  been 
here,  and  I  didn't  kill  her,  and  now  you're  here,  and  I  can't 
kill  you,  and  I  shan't  even  kill  myself.  Oh,  Basil,  why  did 
you  let  her  tell  me?  I  couldn't  bear  it,  anyway,  but  I  could 
have  borne  it  best  from  you." 

He  stood  looking  down  at  her  with  mingled  misery  and  hope- 
less, defiant  pride  in  his  glance.  In  a  sense,  if  he  had  dropped 
at  her  feet  he  could  have  gone  no  lower  in  sheer  self-abase- 
ment of  affection,  and  yet  there  was  triumph  that  he  could  not 
hide.  And  his  voice,  that  lazy,  caressing  voice  that  she  loved 
to  the  point  of  hatred  went  murmuring  on: 


ig8  DOLF 

"We  played  at  love  in  Mulga  town 
And  oh,  her  eyes  were  blue ! 
We  played  at  love  in  Mulga  town 
And  that's  a  game  for  two, 
t       And  at  that  game  if  three  should  play 
There's  one  of  them  will  rue,  sweetheart, 
There's  one  of  them  will  rue," 

he  quoted  softly.  "He's  a  liar,  Dolf,  darling.  They  all  three 
rue.  Love's  a  sweet,  insidious  poison,  and  there's  no  anti- 
dote. How  you  hate  me,  don't  you?" 

"No,"  she  said  bitterly,  "and  you  know  it.  I  wish  I  could! 
It  would  make  things  easier  for  me." 

He  sat  on  the  arm  of  her  chair,  drew  her  fair  unhappy  head 
against  him  and  stroked  it  gently. 

"You  see,  Dolf,"  he  explained  with  forlorn  conviction,  "I'm 
absolutely  damned  from  birth  where  women  are  concerned.  I 
can't  help  loving  them,  and  up  to  a  point  they  like  to  be  loved, 
and  after  that  they  can't  bear  not  to  be,  and  it's  hell  for  both 
of  us.  The  first  time  I  loved  I  paid  and  we  were  all  square. 
You  heard  about  that  this  afternoon.  It  was  foolish  from  every 
point  of  view  except  one.  She'd  have  been  far  happier  if  we 
hadn't  married.  And  now  I've  met  you,  and  I  love  you  and 
love  you,  and  you  love  me,  and  what's  to  be  done?  I  could 
have  told  you  I  was  married,  but  it  wouldn't  have  helped.  I've 
been  going  to  times  out  of  number.  But  what  difference  would 
it  have  made?  We  just  clung  to  one  another  from  the  begin- 
ning. We  were  damned  from  the  start.  If  you  want  me  you 
can  have  me,  but  you  never  would  on  those  terms.  There's 
nothing  I  can  give  you  you'd  take,  and  what  you  will  take  isn't 
worth  having  from  your  point  of  view — it  isn't  enough.  I'd  like 
you  to  believe  it's  hell  for  me  too — worse  hell,  because  I 
shouldn't  have  let  you  love  me.  At  least  you're  that  much 
better  off.  You  didn't  know." 

"No,"  she  murmured,  "I  didn't  know.  But  if  I  had  known, 
would  I  have  been  strong  enough?  I'm  not  so  sure,  Basil,  not 


DOLF  199 

sufficiently  to  put  it  all  on  you.  You  do  love  me,  don't  you? 
You  can  tell  me  now  it's  all  finished  and  smashed  to  bits." 

She  held  up  her  mouth  and  he  kissed  her  very  gently,  very 
slowly,  very  despairingly. 

"Yes,"  he  said  at  last,  "I  do  love  you,  and  you  know  I  do." 

She  stood  up  and  put  her  hands  on  his  shoulders,  looking  at 
him  for  the  last  time  with  the  frank  love-look  a  woman  only 
lets  a  man  see  once  or  twice  in  a  lifetime. 

"You've  been  the  kindest  thing,  the  dearest,  you've  made 
me  frightfully  happy,  and  I  don't  hate  you.  Good-bye,  and 
thank  you  ever  so  much." 

As  his  footfall  died  away  in  the  corridor  she  stood  looking 
out  into  the  late  afternoon.  The  buildings  opposite  showed 
a  mere  blur  through  the  rain,  but  she  perceived  neither.  She 
only  saw  in  a  vision  a  man  and  a  girl,  a  smooth-running  car> 
and  a  ribbon  of  endless  road. 

Next  day,  after  the  Saturday  matinee,  in  the  great  room  at 
his  suite  of  offices  Gillingham  Kent  sat  opposite  Dolf,  smoking 
an  endless  sequence  of  cigarettes,  recalling  inevitably  some 
scholarly  antiquarian  among  his  treasures.  But  behind  the 
mask  of  detachment  existed  a  steady,  virile  purpose;  in  this 
ancient  setting  he  played,  with  the  vigour  of  youth,  the  oldest 
game  in  the  world. 

"I  want  you,"  he  said  simply,  "but  I  want  you  now.  I've 
promised  you  not  only  riches,  but  fame  in  return.  You're  life, 
inspiration,  vitality,  everything  to  me.  I  don't  say  I  love  you 
because  there  isn't  such  a  thing  as  love.  It's  simply  a  sex- 
complex  in  the  brain.  But  you  can  see  I'm  perfectly  straight- 
forward. I  do  honestly  admire  you,  and  I  can  give  you  what 
no  one  else  could.  The  only  thing  is  for  you  to  decide." 

Dolf,  seated  in  the  vast  leather  chair,  a  tea-table  at  her  elbow, 
one  of  his  cigarettes  between  her  fingers,  laughed  softly.  She 
heard  vaguely  all  he  had  said,  but  above  it  a  lazy,  caressing 


200  DOLF 

voice  murmured  in  her  ears:  "I  do  love  you,  and  you  know  I 
do.'*  For  Gillingham  Kent  it  was  the  voice  of  doom. 

She  rose,  walked  across  to  the  mighty  fireplace  and  stood 
with  her  back  to  it. 

"There's  one  man  I'd  go  out  into  the  world  with  and  follow 
from  sea  to  sea  if  he  hadn't  a  farthing,"  she  answered  slowly. 
"I'd  do  this  because  I  love  him  and  in  his  way  he  loves  me. 
I  can't  have  him  because  he  isn't  free,  but  equally  I  can't 
have  anyone  else  because  just  now  it  would  kill  me.  It's  very 
nice  of  you  to  offer  me  all  this.  You'd  be  making  a  rotten 
bargain,  and  I  don't  deserve  it,  but  that  doesn't  affect  your 
kindness.  Try  not  to  think  I'm  ungrateful.  I  just  can't  do 
anything  else." 

The  grey -haired  man's  expression  never  changed. 

"You  are  quite  sure?  Even  at  the  risk  of  making  an  enemy 
you'd  stick  to  your  decision?  Of  course  you  realise  that  if  I 
care  to  lift  a  finger  you're  finished  as  far  as  the  stage  is  con- 
cerned?" 

"I  brought  nothing  into  the  world.  I  shall  take  nothing  out. 
I  can't  have  less  than  nothing.  And  anyway  I  shall  never  go 
back  to  the  stage — now." 

Gillingham  Kent  rose,  and  held  out  his  hand. 

"I  told  you  you  had  character  and  that  character  can't  be 
bought,"  he  said  courteously.  "At  least  you've  proved  the 
truth  of  that  saying.  I  respect  you  immensely.  If  you  alter 
your  mind,  about  me  or  the  stage,  please  let  me  know.  What- 
ever you  decide  to  do,  my  name  is  not  without  influence.  I 
shall  never  ask  anything  in  return  except  your  friendship.  I'd 
like  to  feel  we  part  friends." 

She  took  his  hand  and  smiled. 

"We  do,  and  it's  not  very  usual  in  a  case  like  ours,  is  it? 
I  think  we've  achieved  rather  a  triumph." 

Dolf  and  Basil  had  got  through  the  matinee  as  best  they 
could,  and  the  evening  performance.  Now  they  had  separated 


DOLF  201 

forever  and  she  was  alone  in  the  flat,  Netta  having  gone 
straight  from  the  theatre  on  a  week-end  holiday. 

Dolf  hardly  knew  how  she  was  to  live  through  the  next 
days.  However,  Sunday  afternoon  found  her  mechanically  re- 
peating some  of  the  gestures  of  existence,  among  which  was  the 
reading  of  the  Sunday  papers.  But  her  mind  wandered  far 
away  and  she  would  have  tossed  them  aside  had  not  her  eye 
been  arrested  by  the  picture  of  a  woman's  face,  familiar,  and 
somehow  unpleasant  to  her. 

She  glanced  underneath. 

"Mrs.  de  Blancheforet  Senlake,  whose  husband  has  di- 
vorced her.  The  decree  was  made  absolute  yesterday.  Mrs. 
Senlake's  marriage  to  Captain  Reginald  Mayne  M.  C.  ist. 
Cornish  Guards,  is  announced  as  an  event  of  the  near  future." 

Dolf  put  down  the  paper  and  stared  into  space. 

At  first  the  irony  alone  struck  her,  that  Senlake  should  be 
free,  Senlake — to  whom  life  meant  nothing,  to  whom  this  very 
severance  from  the  object  of  his  infatuation  would  probably  be 
the  final  blow  bringing  on  complete  degeneration — while  Basil, 
whose  wife  meant  nothing  to  him,  was  bound. 

But  gradually  her  thoughts  broadened;  she  saw  the  world 
and  its  injustice  less  from  the  standpoint  of  her  class  alone. 
She  saw  society  in  all  its  hypocrisy;  all  were  victims  of  society, 
of  human  weakness.  Basil  had  been  weak  to  marry  that  coun- 
try girl.  Guy  had  been  weak  to  love  Sonia  to  his  own  destruc- 
tion. To  throw  away  life  is  weak.  But  men  have  chances  to 
recover  and  women  have  not.  Even  Basil's  wife  was  as  ham- 
pered as  he.  If  she  were  free  she  might  rebuild  her  life  ac- 
cording to  her  proper  place  in  it. 

"After  all,  I'm  free.  But  for  what?  To  work  for  food  and 
shelter  and  to  dodge  girl-hunting  men.  I'm  not  free  to  be 
happy." 

She  saw  life  ahead  hard,  relentless,  and  forever  ironic.  She 
saw  even  Senlake's  point  of  view:  Why  rebel  and  fight  when 
nothing  ever  comes  of  it? 


202  DOLF 

She  was  roused  by  the  door  opening. 

Netta  entered. 

"Why,  Dolf!  Heavens,  what's  wrong?  You  look  like  a 
ghost." 

Briefly  Dolf  explained  about  Basil. 

It  was  her  very  apathy  that  seemed  to  alarm  Netta,  who 
came  to  her  anxiously.  The  two  had  seen  little  of  each  other 
lately;  Dolf  had  been  absorbed  with  Basil,  while  Netta  was 
playing  some  lone  hand  of  her  own. 

"Oh — I  see,  you've  read  the  papers.  What  do  you  think' 
about  Mrs.  Senlake?" 

"What  is  there  to  think?" 

"It  depends  on  him.  He's  free."  Netta  spoke  jerkily,  with- 
out looking  at  Dolf. 

"But  his  own  affairs  are  his  own.  Heaven  knows  he  made  it 
plain  they  aren't  mine,"  said  Dolf. 

"Still,  you  liked  him,  and  he  always  helped  you.  How  do 
you  know  but  what  he  did  answer  that  letter  of  yours,  and 
you  never  got  it?" 

Something  in  her  tone  aroused  Dolf.  She  looked  up  to  see 
Netta  changed,  pale,  with  burning  eyes  and  trembling  inter- 
locking fingers. 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"I  mean — I  mean "  Suddenly  Netta  strode  to  her  desk, 

and  took  out  the  long-hidden  letter.  "I  can't  bear  to  see  you 
so  unhappy,"  she  half  sobbed,  and  giving  the  letter  to  Dolf, 
hurried  from  the  room. 

"Dear  child,"  Senlake  had  written,  "I  do  want  to  see  you.  But  you 
must  come  to  me.  I've  been  ill.  Typhoid,  hospital  and  all  that.  I'm 
back  at  my  lodgings,  but  still  crocked  pretty  badly.  I'll  recover, 
because  there's  no  chance  for  a  useless  thing  like  me  to  die.  Yours 
are  the  real  troubles.  Come  to  me  and  we'll  discover  a  way  out  for 
you,  if  you  don't  mind  finding  me  in  rather  dingy  surroundings.  But 
you'll  be  like  flowers  and  sunlight,  and  you'll  laugh  at  your  own 
troubles  and  I'll  be  selfish  if  you  aren't  careful.  I  mustn't  talk  of 
me;  I  mustn't  be  selfish  with  the  dearest  thing  in  the  world. 
"Almost  hopefully,  since  you're  coming, 

"GUY." 


DOLF  203 

Long  minutes  later  Dolf  went  to  Netta's  room  and  handed 
her  the  letter.  Netta,  who  was  fiercely  brushing  her  hair,  read 
it  standing. 

The  next  moment  she  flung  herself  on -the  bed  in  wild  un- 
familiar grief.  Dolf,  who  had  never  seen  her  shed  a  tear, 
waited  quietly. 

"Why?"  she  asked  at  last.    "Why  did  you?" 

"Why?    Can't  you  see?    It  ought  to  be  plain  enough." 

"You  mean  you  love  him?" 

"Oh,  what  does  it  matter!  I'll  not  die  of  it,  anyhow.  And 
now  he's  free  and  you'll  get  him." 

"Get  Senlake?"    Dolf  exclaimed  in  sheer  astoundment. 

Netta  sat  up.  She  saw  Dolf  sunken-cheeked,  pale,  hollow- 
eyed,  stricken  in  her  recent  grief.  All  at  once  Netta's  face 
softened  wonderfully;  ever  afterwards  Dolf  remembered  that 
at  that  moment  Netta,  hardly-used  by  life,  had  been  utterly 
selfless,  taking  the  strange  beauty  that  goes  with  unselfish- 
ness. 

"I  hope  you  do  get  him,  Dolf.  Some  day  you'll  forget  about 
Basil.  And  I  suppose  you'll  never  speak  to  me  again,  and 
certainly  you'll  not  go  on  living  with  me,  but  I  do  mean  this: 
I  hope  you'll  find  happiness,  whether  it's  Senlake  or  not.  As 
for  me,  if  he  were  ten  times  free  he'd  never  love  me.  Per- 
haps just  because  I  know  that  it'll  help  me  to  forget." 

"I  shan't  forget  Basil,"  said  Dolf  very  low.  "But  I'll  for- 
get what  you  did  and  we'll  go  on  living  together  just  as  we 
were.  For  I  need  you  more  than  ever  now.  I've  got  to  face 
life  all  over  again,  because  I've  left  the  stage  forever.  There 
are  too  many  ghosts  if  I  were  to  return." 

That  evening  Dolf  went  to  Senlake's  address. 

What  happened  was  no  surprise.  Somehow  she  had  known 
he  would  not  be  there.  He  was  too  much  a  bird  of  passage, 
and  it  had  been  too  long  ago. 


204  DOLF 

It  was  a  dreary  neighbourhood.  A  slatternly  fat  woman  let 
her  in  and  eyed  her  indifferently  out  of  red-rimmed  eyes. 

"Yes,  'e  stayed  'ere  till  the  divorce  was  granted.  Oh,  yes,  'e 
was  quite  well  again,  but  thin-like.  A  queer-un!  No,  'e  didn't 
leave  no  address." 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

DOLF  considered  the  typed  letter  with  disillusioned  eyes  from  •, 
embossed  heading  to  firm,  legible  signature. 

"He  will  engage  me  as  his  secretary,"  she  said  slowly,  and 
the  certainty  seemed  to  bring  her  no  joy.  "Thank  God,  Sir 
Henry  Creagh  had  me  taught  typewriting  and  shorthand. 
Anyway,  I've  had  plenty  of  business  experience,  in  the  shop 
at  home,  at  Holbridge  &  Sellingbourne's,  and  even  in  the 
theatre.  Then  I  understand  people,  and  that's  nine-tenths  of 
any  business.  It  won't  be  all  on  account  of  my  shorthand  and 
typewriting,  though,  which  are  no  better  than  anybody  else's. 
He'll  do  it  because  my  clothes  came  from  Hanover  Square, 
and  I'm  pretty,  and  he  wants  to  kiss  me,  and  feels  quite  sure 
itTl  be  difficult  enough  to  be  worth  while  though  not  im- 
possible. Men  are  like  God;  they  need  regular  sacrifices  and 
girls  who  have  to  live  are  the  sacrifice.  And  then  old  ladies 
tell  us  to  be  good!" 

The  early  morning  sun,  which  shines  on  the  just  and  unjust 
alike,  made  a  golden  pool  of  light  on  the  carpet  of  her  room. 
In  the  midst  of  the  pool  sat  Dolf,  hair  tumbled  about  her 
shoulders,  a  pathetic  expression  of  self-pity  in  her  eyes. 
Her  slight  beauty  showed  still  slighter  in  her  night-gown;  her 
wistfulness  became  intensified  as  she  delved  hopelessly  in  the 
drawer  of  a  wardrobe  for  something  plain  and  business-like  that 
would  appeal  to,a  distinguished  business  man.  Most  of  Dolf's 
clothes  were  as  frail  as  her  expectations  of  virtue,  and  as  im- 
portunate as  the  men  who  had  given  them  to  her.  They  repre- 
sented so  many  milestones  along  the  primrose  path  to  the  ever-, 
lasting  bonfire.  Hitherto  she  had  managed  to  keep  the  clothes 

205 


206  DOLF 

and  escape  the  bon-fire,  but  several  times  its  hot  breath  had 
fanned  her  cheek. 

Finally  she  dragged  out  a  blue  tailored  suit  and  the  silk 
shirt,  stockings  and  shoes  to  match. 

"It's  plain  and  business-like,"  she  murmured.  "If  he's  got 
any  sense  he'll  realise  the  cut,  know  I  couldn't  afford  it,  scent 
an  easy  prey,  and  get  going  on  the  trail.  If  he  hasn't  he'll 
still  thank  heaven  I  didn't  turn  up  in  a  silk  frock  with  a  string 
of  amber  beads  round  my  neck  and  a  Directoire  sunshade. 
Really  a  blue  suit  seems  equal  to  anything." 

She  dressed  with  the  infinite  care  for  detail  that  forms  nine- 
tenths  of  a  girl's  life,  played  with  an  unappetising  breakfast 
and  set  forth  to  seek  Geoffrey  Fordham  in  his  Bond  Street 
offices.  Of  men's  covetous  glances  she  took  no  heed.  They 
had  become  so  commonplace  they  failed  even  to  support  her. 
Just  so  indifferent  is  unattainable  water  to  the  manifestations 
of  the  thirsty. 

Bond  Street,  the  paradise  of  the  rich  and  the  Mecca  of  the 
indigent,  caressed  her  with  a  wanton  smile.  The  block  of  of- 
fices retired  behind  the  smug  opulence  of  a  marble  vestibule. 
A  silent  lift  bore  her  many  floors  upward  till  a  mahogany, 
brass-bound  door  received  her  into  Geoffrey  Fordham's  suite. 

She  became  aware  of  many  girls  bent  in  mock  humility  over 
typewriters.  A  couple  of  male  clerks  moved  to  and  fro  in  the 
desultory  fashion  of  early  morning.  The  senior  clerk,  care- 
fully groomed,  middle-aged,  discreet,  led  her  to  an  inner  room, 
simply  and  suitably  furnished,  that  interposed  a  circuit  of 
peace  and  remoteness  between  the  outer  world  and  the  aloof 
majesty  of  Geoffrey  Fordham's  private  apartment.  Dolf 
guessed  that  she  or  some  other  girl  would  occupy  this  neutral 
zone,  because  women  properly  handled  are  more  discreet  than 
men. 

A  small,  plain,  costly  clock  on  the  mantel-piece  struck  half- 
past  nine  on  a  silver-toned  gong.  From  the  outer  office  came 
faint  snatches  of  laughter  and  gossip.  Before  a  quarter  to  ten 


DOLF  207 

three  different  girls  had  passed  from  it  to  Geoffrey  Fordham's 
room  and  out  again.  Each,  without  seeming  to  do  so,  stripped 
Dolf  with  her  eyes,  weighed  her  clothes  and  morals  in  the  bal- 
ance, valued  them,  made  a  mental  note,  and  returned  to  her 
occupation.  As  usual,  all  of  them,  however  they  might  hate 
one  another,  hated  the  stranger  more. 

Exactly  at  ten  o'clock  the  door  of  the  outer  office  clicked 
and  a  Personality  immediately  pervaded  the  whole  place.  Dolf 
felt  it  through  the  walls  and  closed  door;  a  moment  later  a  tall 
figure  strode  through  the  room  in  which  she  sat,  bowed  very 
slightly,  and  disappeared  inside  his  own. 

In  that  second  Dolf  had  photographed  him  on  her  brain — the 
swift  brain  of  the  girl  who  lives  by  her  wits.  If  she  knew  any- 
thing in  the  world  she  knew  men,  their  standards,  their  shibbo- 
leths, the  little  intimate  tests  by  which  they  measure  one  an- 
other and  the  strange  gods  they  worship. 

"He's  clever,"  she  told  herself.  "He's  not  the  ordinary  busi- 
ness creature  who  wears  a  Trilby  hat  with  his  evening  clothes 
and  feels  frightfully  wicked  when  he  takes  out  a  girl  and  leaves 
his  wife  at  home.  This  man's  one  of  the  Best  People.  I  know 
where  he  gets  his  clothes  and  who  cuts  his  hair." 

The  senior  male  clerk  hurried  through  to  the  holy  of  holies 
much  as  an  orderly  in  a  good  regiment  approaches  his  company 
commander  with  a  message. 

"His  manners'll  be  heavenly  and  he  hasn't  any  morals,"  pur- 
sued Dolf  inwardly.  "Every  head  waiter  in  London  knows  him 
and  money  means  nothing  to  him.  In  a  way,  I'm  lucky,  but 
not  as  the  Y.  W.  C.  A.  would  see  it." 

The  senior  clerk  stepped  briskly  into  her  presence.  Ha 
seemed  to  have  borrowed  inspiration  from  someone  mightier 
than  himself.  He  was  bigger,  manlier,  keener,  more  competent. 

"Mr.  Fordham  would  like  to  see  you,  please,  Miss  Farmer." 

He  showed  her  into  Fordham's  room,  placed  a  chair  for 
her,  and  left  them  alone. 

The  tall  man  at  the  writing-table  looked  up,  faintly  pre- 


208  DOLF 

occupied.  Their  eyes  met;  just  as  when  contact  is  made  the 
electric  current  flows  instantly  and  inexorably  to  complete  the 
circuit,  so  from  each  of  them  went  out  those  waves  of  spirit- 
ual ether  and  met  and  mingled.  Instinctively  the  two  re- 
laxed where  they  sat  and  he  opened  the  conversation  almost 
carelessly.  He  knew  she  would  never  misunderstand.  They 
spoke  the  same  soul  language.  They  were  tuned  to  the  same 
wave-length.  With  a  little  sigh  of  relief  she  realised  that 
whatever  happened  there  would  be  nothing  ugly  nor  sordid 
nor  vulgar  nor  inartistic. 

The  well-cut  features  broke  into  a  little  almost  relieved  smile. 

"Good-morning,"  he  said,  and  his  voice  was  as  the  voices  of 
the  men,  not  of  her  class,  who  might  break  a  girl,  but  would 
never  insult  her.  "It's  very  good  of  you  to  come  along  at  short 
notice.  I  haven't  gone  into  all  those  references.  I  needn't, 
need  I?  I  hate  references.  I  s'pose  your  shorthand  and  typing 
are  all  right?  It  isn't  so  much  them  I  want  though  as  some- 
one who  won't  get  on  my  nerves,  or  the  nerves  of  people  who 
come  to  see  me.  I  don't  think  you  will,  do  you?" 

The  smile  lingered  on  his  face.  Dolf  felt  rested  and  very 
much  at  home.  She  knew  he  must  be  summing  her  up,  but 
he  did  it  so  imperceptibly.  After  one  quick  glance  he  seemed 
hardly  to  look  at  her  again.  He  sat  back  in  his  chair,  hands 
clasped  behind  his  head  and  let  her  alone. 

"Tell  me  about  yourself.  What  do  you  want  to  do?  What 
do  you  think  of  life?" 

Dolf  looked  straight  at  him  very  thoughtfully  and  he  never 
gave  a  sign  that  he  felt  her  eyes  on  his  face. 

"I  want  to  earn  my  living,"  she  said  slowly,  "and  be  inde- 
pendent, and  never  have  to  propitiate  any  man  again.  I'm 
not  an  ordinary  girl  typist.  I've  been  on  the  stage,  and  in  a 
big  shop,  and  met  heaps  of  men — your  kind  of  men.  Perhaps, 
partly,  I've  lived  on  them,  but  never  with  them,  and  yet  I 
don't  think  I  owe  them  anything.  I  should  so  like  to  make  my 


DOLF  209 

own  life  and  be  as  good  as  a  man.  Can  it  be  done  ever,  do 
you  think?" 

The  steady  eyes  came  back  to  her  face  from  the  picture  they 
seemed  to  have  been  studying. 

"You  shall  see,"  he  said.  "Your  salary  will  be  six  pounds  a 
week.  If  in  a  month  either  of  us  is  dissatisfied  I  will  give  you 
a  month's  salary  and  we'll  call  it  off.  If  it's  O.  K.  you  can 
practically  make  what  career  you  like.  I've  any  number  of 
irons  in  the  fire.  Probably  you  won't  go  far  wrong,  not  being, 
if  I  may  say  so,  exactly  foolish.  I  should  rather  like  you  to 
make  good.  If  there's  ever  anything  you  want  or  don't  under- 
stand, please  tell  me.  Now  you'd  better  meet  my  other  people, 
and  if  you  could  start  work  on  Monday  so  much  the  better." 

He  took  her  and  introduced  her  to  the  other  people.  Dolf 
noted  the  faint  subtle  difference  in  Parravain's  manner,  the 
meek  humbug  of  the  other  girls,  who  would  be  inferior  to  her. 
She  took  a  last  look  at  her  own  perfect  room  and  sighed.  Per- 
haps at  length  an  Eden  had  bloomed  for  her  in  which  no 
serpent  lurked  and  no  Adam  should  oppress  her.  Then  she 
recalled  the  eyes  of  Geoffrey  Fordham,  and  sighed  again. 

Fordham  came  out  of  his  room  into  Dolf's  and  closed  the 
door.  She  never  raised  her  eyes  from  her  notes  and  the  type- 
writer clicked  on  methodically.  She  had  sworn  to  be  good. 
Mistrusting  the  witchery  of  spiritual  ether  and  propinquity,  she 
set  herself  to  be  a  secretary  and  no  more  than  a  secretary,  a 
charming  machine,  something  impersonal  and  not  quite  human. 
And  feeling  daily  that  faint  exultant  stimulation  his  presence 
brought,  knowing  it  to  be  reciprocal,  she  felt  the  battle  to  be 
lost  before  it  began. 

He  stood  on  the  other  side  of  the  room  and  leant  his  shoul- 
ders against  the  mantel-piece. 

"Dolf,"  he  commenced,  with  a  faint  affectionate  stress  on  her 
name.  "Dolf,  will  you  lunch  with  me  to-day?" 

She  swung  round  in  the  swivel  chair,  considered  him  gravely, 
and  shook  her  head. 


2io  DOLF 

"Why  not?" 

"Because,"  said  Dolf  slowly,  "I'm  your  secretary  and  an 
inferior  and  it  wouldn't  do.  Parravain  would  think  things,  and 
Miss  Ramsay  and  Miss  Merridew  and  Miss  Laverstock  would 
say  things.  Besides  a  secretary  ought  to  be  neither  mineral 
nor  animal  nor  vegetable.  Lunching  together  and  that  kind  of 
thing  get  in  the  way  of  work." 

"Parravain  will  think  anyway,  and  the  girls'll  talk  anyway. 
You  might  as  well  be  hung  for  a  sheep  as  a  lamb.  In  Par- 
ravain's  eyes  you're  too  charming  to  be — oh,  well,  staid,  and  in 
the  eyes  of  the  girls  you're  too  expensive  to  be  good.  They 
know  good  things  are  cheap  and  nice  things  are  dear.  Besides, 
I  want  to  talk  to  you  about  the  potash  contract." 

"No,  thank  you,  Mr.  Fordham." 

"I  always  call  you  Dolf  when  we're  alone,"  he  objected 
irrelevantly. 

"I  know,  but  then  you  can  do  as  you  like,  and  I  didn't  ask 
you  to,  and  you're  my  employer,  so  I  call  you  Mr.  Fordham." 

"Dolf,  how  old  are  you?" 

"Twenty-two." 

"Well,  the  sun's  shining,  and  there  are  men  selling  violets  in 
Piccadilly,  and  there's  a  lilt  in  the  air  and  I  feel  frightfully 
young  in  spite  of  my  thirty-five  years.  And  I  do  want  you  to 
lunch  with  me." 

She  picked  up  a  pencil  and  drew  little  nothings  with  it  on 
the  blotting-pad. 

"Why  are  men  always  destroyers?"  she  said  almost  pas- 
sionately, looking  him  straight  in  the  eyes.  "Why  can  they 
never  rest  content  without  pulling  down  barriers  like  a  kid  pull- 
ing a  toy  to  pieces.  I  knew  as  soon  as  I  saw  you  how  it  would 
be.  To-day  you  want  me  to  lunch.  Another  day  you'll  want 
to  kiss  me.  Well,  there's  no  harm  in  your  kissing  me  if  you 
must,  but  you  won't  rest  content  with  kisses.  A.  man  always 
wants  to  go  on  where  he  left  off  the  day  before  You  couldn't 
kiss  me  one  day  and  call  me  Miss  Farmer  and  strafe  me  over 


DOLF  211 

a  letter  the  next.  And  in  the  long  run  I  shall  have  to  leave, 
and  I  don't  want  to  leave." 

"Aren't  you  misjudging  me  rather,  Dolf  ?  Have  I  ever  been 
unkind  to  you?" 

"No,  I'm  not.  And  you're  far  too  kind  to  me.  That's 
the  trouble."  She  smiled  and  the  curve  of  her  lips  troubled 
his  man's  nature  so  that  his  mind  rioted  among  imaginary 
kisses.  "If  you  were  healthily  rude  occasionally  I  should  be 
less  anxious.  I'm  sorry,  Mr.  Fordham,  but  I  can't  lunch  with 
you.  You  can  see  for  yourself  we're  better  as  we  are." 

His  face  clouded  a  little  and  he  shrugged  faintly. 

"All  right.  Have  it  your  own  way,"  he  said  almost  casually, 
and  went  back  to  his  work.  Later  she  saw  him  go  out  alone. 
As  she  passed  through  the  outer  office  to  her  own  meal  Parra- 
vain  smilingly  held  the  door  for  her.  He  was  married,  with  a 
family,  and  he  believed  in  making  friends  with  the  mammon 
of  unrighteousness  when  it  wore  a  sixteen  guinea  suit  and 
earned,  or  was  paid,  six  pounds  a  week.  Dolf  did  not  mistake 
the  quiver  of  Miss  Ramsay's  eyelid  as  her  glance  met  Miss 
Laverstock's. 

"Damn  them!"  she  exclaimed  fiercely  as  the  door  closed, 
"They're  green-jealous  and  as  cruel  as  the  grave.  Laverstock 
would  crawl  over  my  dead  body  to  get  Geoffrey  to  look  at  her 
twice.  I  want  to  be  good,  and  how  hard  it  is  to  be  pretty 
and  good  as  well!  I  doubt  if  the  women  one  meets  in  heaven 
are  exactly  a  beauty  chorus." 

That  afternoon  Fordham,  who  had  left  no  message,  failed 
to  return  from  lunch.  His  Rolls-Royce,  ordered  for  two  o'clock, 
waited  in  vain  at  the  curb  outside  the  marble  vestibule.  Dolf, 
unable  to  explain  his  tarrying,  coped  as  best  she  might  with  a 
string  of  callers. 

"Cherchez  la  jemme,  Miss  Farmer,"  quoted  Philip  Heriot, 
twenty-six,  beautifully  polished,  morning-coated,  and  silk  hat- 
ted, having  lit,  with  permission,  a  fragrant  Egyptian  cigarette. 
He  conferred  a  gentle  distinction  on  the  room,  with  a  touch 


212  DOLF 

of  charming  sincerity  thrown  in  as  if  to  assure  her  that,  lovely 
as  he  was,  no  harm  or  evil  intent  lurked  beneath  the  surface. 
Dolf  rather  liked  him. 

"How's  'Lucky  Lingerie  Limited'?"  she  queried  idly,  wonder- 
ing what  had  become  of  Fofdham.  "The  boss  is  awfully  keen 
on  it.  He  says  the  profits  are  enormous  and  you'll  double 
them  before  long." 

"We're  using  half  the  material  and  charging  twice  the  price, 
gracious  lady.  How  can  we  help  succeeding?  May  I  sell  you 
a  set  of  everything  at  wholesale  prices  as  a  reward  for  enter- 
taining me  so  nicely?  That  is,  of  course,  provided  Fordham 
doesn't  mind." 

"Please  don't,"  said  Dolf  with  a  touch  of  ice  in  her  tone. 
"There's  no  reason  why  you  should,  or  why  he  should  mind  if 
you  did.  I'm  just  his  secretary  and  I  take  myself  dead  seri- 
ously. If  you  were  a  girl  you'd  understand  what  I  mean." 

"I  do  understand  as  it  is,"  he  insisted  and  the  mockery 
faded  out  of  his  voice.  He  became  at  once  a  very  nice,  sincere 
boy  indeed.  "Of  course  I  was  only  being  silly.  I've  got  the 
deepest  respect  for  a  girl  who  stands  on  her  own  feet  and  makes 
her  own  way  in  the  world  as  you  do.  And  I'm  sure  Fordham 
has  too.  'Fraid  I  can't  wait  any  longer.  Do  excuse  me  and 
make  it  all  right  with  him." 

"Right  ho!"  she  promised  and  gave  him  a  friendly  smile. 
Somehow  she  felt  he  might  turn  out  a  pal  in  case  of  need. 
There  was  so  obviously  no  vice  in  him — he  laughed  too 
frankly  and  joyously  for  that. 

To  him  succeeded  Mrs.  Dawlish. 

She  drifted  in  with  her  faint  ironic  smile  and  soignee  at- 
mosphere, the  perfect  woman  of  the  world  who  knew  everyone, 
did  everything,  and  believed  in  nothing  except  possibly  herself. 
She  was  a  journalist  of  the  uncommon  sort,  who  mixed  with 
the  lords  of  the  world  on  equal  terms,  had  the  scandals  of  Lon- 
don at  her  fingertips  and  was  invariably  so  discreetly  indis- 
creet. She  cultivated  Fordham  because  he  was  a  big  specimen 


DOLF  213 

of  her  sort  of  man  and  her  business  led  her  to  a  nodding  ac- 
quaintance at  least  with  genius  of  any  kind. 

"Good-afternoon,"  she  murmured  in  her  clear-cut,  linger* 
ing  tones.  "You're  new  since  I  saw  Mr.  Fordham  last.  I 
think  he's  very  lucky  to  get  you,  if  you  don't  mind  my  saying 
so.  After  all,  why  shouldn't  I?  I'm  old  enough  to  be  your 
mother,  nineteen  times  as  wicked  and  not  half  so  good-looking. 
If  either  of  us  has  to  be  afraid  of  the  other  I've  got  to  be 
afraid  of  you." 

She  drifted  over  to  a  chair  and  smiled  across  at  Dolf.  And 
Dolf  could  only  feel  like  a  little  girl  caught  stealing  jam,  and 
wonder  how  many  scores  of  men  must  have  loved  Mrs.  Dawlish, 
and  know  that  not  one  of  them  ever  began  to  understand  this 
woman's  mind. 

"Mr.  Fordham's  disappeared,"  she  explained,  and  faced  the 
newcomer  with  a  desperate  effort  to  hold  her  own.  "He  didn't 
tell  me  he  wasn't  coming  back.  It's  a  mystery  and  I  can't 
explain  it.  Do  let  me  give  you  tea." 

"Thanks — I've  already  had  two  teas  already."  She  looked 
at  Dolf  with  the  little  ironic  smile  still  playing  about  hef 
mouth.  "How  did  Geoffrey  discover  you?  Do  you  know  I 
think  it's  frightfully  clever  of  him.  So  few  men  understand 
how  to  choose  their  secretaries.  They  either  get  hold  of  a 
frump  or  a  hard-minded  young  woman  with  a  brain  like  a  cash- 
register.  Now  you're  just  perfect." 

Dolf  rested  her  chin  on  her  hands,  and  stared  unblushingly 
at  Mrs.  Dawlish  out  of  reflective  eyes. 

"I  wonder  what  you  want?"  she  murmured.  "Do  you  love 
him?  If  you  do,  you  may  have  him  if  you  can  get  him.  I'm 
not  a  competitor  even  supposing  I  could  compete  with  you.  I 
only  want  to  earn  my  living  and  be  let  alone.  Unfortunately 
men  never  can  let  a  girl  alone  unless  she's  impossibly  plain." 

Mrs.  Dawlish,  who  sought  truth  even  if  she  did  not  ensue 
it,  and  had  found  what  she  wanted,  went  off  on  a  tangent  into 
Gilead,  so  to  speak,  and  came  back  loaded  with  balm. 


214  DOLF 

"My  dear,  you  can  count  me  out,"  she  said  with  the  most 
limpid  sincerity  of  manner.  "Geoffrey's  a  pal  of  mine,  and 
useful,  and  I'd  like  to  know  you  because  you're  in  a  way  a 
sidelight  on  his  character.  And  it's  obvious  why  I  said  he  was 
clever  to  find  you,  and  fortunate,  isn't  it?" 

"Is  it?" 

"Of  course  it  is." 

She  stretched  out  a  slender  hand  moulded  in  virgin  white 
kid  and  played  with  the  handle  of  a  seven  guinea  parasol. 

"There  are  so  many  women  in  a  man's  life;  some  he  loves, 
others  he  endures,  one  he  may  even  marry.  If  he  isn't  clever 
enough  some  of  them  may  get  in  the  way  of  his  work,  which 
is  more  than  women  if  he's  a  person  of  any  gifts.  But  if  he 
can  get  the  right  kind  of  pretty  girl  connected  with  that  work 
to  keep  him  always  interested,  just  a  shade  above  himself,  it's 
more  satisfactory  as  a  stimulus  than  any  drug  or  cocktail  ever 
invented,  and  far  more  permanent.  Probably  she  helps  with 
the  men  who  come  to  see  him  too.  Either  way  she's  priceless. 
And  that's  what  you  mean  to  Geoffrey  Fordham,  and  that's 
why  I  call  him  clever.  I  rather  envy  you.  If  you  play  your 
hand  correctly,  you  simply  haven't  any  limits;  you  can  be 
what  you  like  to  him." 

She  got  up  to  go. 

"Good-bye,"  she  said  and  stood  there  still  smiling,  a  grace- 
ful woman  of  forty,  with  a  storied  past  and  a  complicated  fu- 
ture. "I  think  we'll  be  friends,  don't  you?  It's  simpler  and 
less  trouble,  and  there's  no  reason  why  we  shouldn't.  If  I 
can  help  you  at  any  time,  do  let  me." 

An  hour  later  Fordham  returned.  There  was  a  weariness  in 
his  expression,  a  touch  of  disillusion  in  his  manner.  He  looked 
at  Dolf  with  half-apologetic,  half-pitiful  eyes.  An  unerring 
sixth  sense  told  her  as  plainly  as  if  she  had  seen  them  together 
that  some  girl  had  occupied  his  afternoon  and  that  in  man's 
dumb,  illogical  way  he  was  apologising  to  her.  But  he  only 
said: 


DOLF  215 

"I  met  a  man  named  Ferguson  Clyte  to-day.  He's  the  man- 
ager of  the  Summerhouse  Theatre  and  he  knew  you  when  you 
were  there.  He  told  me  you  were  awfully  popular  in  those 
days.  Am  I  so  very  unpleasant  or  so  obviously  immoral  that 
you  won't  lunch  with  me,  Dolf?" 

A  languid,  ironic  voice  seemed  to  be  whispering  in  Dolf's  ear: 
"There  are  so  many  women  in  a  man's  life,"  it  murmured.  "But 
if  he  can  get  the  right  kind  of  pretty  girl  to  keep  him  always 
interested  ..."  Somehow  he  scarcely  looked  as  if  it  had 
been  the  right  kind  of  pretty  girl  that  afternoon.  He  was  very 
kind,  and  one  ought  to  play  fair.  After  all,  did  lunch  mean 
so  very  much?  And  one  could  always  go  away  if  circumstances 
became  intolerable. 

She  shook  her  head  very  faintly  and  her  mouth  took  on  a 
pathetic  droop.  Fordham  stood  before  her,  his  brain  a  wild 
tangle  of  desires  and  inhibitions,  folding  invisible  arms  round 
the  slight,  poignant  curves  of  her  figure,  cursing  himself  for 
an  incontinent  brute,  and  exulting  in  her  nearness  and  dearness 
all  in  the  same  breath. 

"All  right,  I  will.  Thanks  very  much,"  she  said  at  last.  "But 
not  to-morrow,  please.  Make  it  the  day  after." 

She  felt  she  could  not  endure  it  till  the  invisible  taint  of  the 
other  girl  had  evaporated  in  the  lapse  of  a  little  time. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

Their  table  stood  in  the  most  fortunate  corner  of  the  great 
cream  and  gold  room  where,  because  the  prices  were  high,  tables 
did  not  jostle  one  another  as  in  lesser  restaurants.  Dolf  could 
look  out  onto  a  little  terrace  gay  with  flowers  and  see  the  green 
of  the  Park  stretching  beyond.  There  were  Fordham's  violets 
at  her  breast,  one  of  Fordham's  cigarettes  between  her  lips,  a 
whole  adoring  encompassing  atmosphere  of  Fordham  about  her 
and  his  voice  lilting  the  love  call  through  every  conversational 
commonplace.  And  while  she  laughed  she  shivered  because  it 
would  go  on  now,  doggedly  and  unweariedly  until — what?  One 
got  so  tired  of  resisting  and  saw  inevitably  the  day  when  from 
sheer  emotional  fatigue  it  became  impossible  to  resist  any 
longer. 

"Dolf,  are  you  happy?" 

She  smiled  at  man's  eternal  boyishness  looking  out  of  his 
admiring  eyes.  He  was  by  far  the  finest  looking  man  in  the 
room.  They  had  everything  money  could  buy  or  art  produce 
And  still  he  asked  if  she  were  happy.  In  his  own  eyes  he 
seemed  not  to  have  given  her  enough. 

"  'Course  I'm  happy.  Who  wouldn't  be.  Are  you?  If  you 
are,  tell  me  why.  I'm  interested." 

She  held*  the  cigarette  in  its  gold-mounted  tube  between  slen- 
der fingers  and  studied  him  thoughtfully.  And  he  quoted,  with 
the  lilt  singing  through  every  tone: 

"  'What  is  so  sweet  and  dear 
As  a  prosperous  morn  in  May, 
The  confident  prime  of  the  day, 
And  the  dauntless  youth  of  the  year, 
216 


DOLF  217 

When  nothing  that  asks  for  bliss, 
Asking  aright,  is  denied, 
And  half  of  the  world  a  bridegroom  is 
And  half  of  the  world  a  bride?' 

"As  usual  the  bliss  is  conditional,  Dolf,  dear.  You  have 
to  ask  aright  for  it.  And  God  knows  I'm  trying." 

He  stretched  a  hand  across  the  table  and  laid  it  on  hers. 

"And  what  is  your  idea  of  bliss?"  she  queried,  knowing  all 
the  time. 

"You,"  he  said  simply.  "You're  perfect.  I  want  you  so, 
and  I'm  going  to  have  you.  Heavens,  how  I  could  work  if  I 
had  you!"  He  drew  back  his  shoulders  like  a  giant  facing 
titanic  difficulties.  She  only  smiled.  She  had  heard  it  all  be- 
fore. She  was  waiting  for  seven  little  words:  "I  want  you  to 
be  my  wife,"  and  they  did  not  come.  And  she  knew  they  never 
would  come  from  him. 

"Don't,  Goeffrey;  you  only  spoil  it  all.  I  warned  you  when 
you  asked  me  to  lunch  with  you,  and  you  wouldn't  listen.  You 
don't  love  me  a  little  bit  and  you  can't  even  pretend  to.  It's 
only  your  man's  destructive  instinct.  You're  all  just  the  same 
with  every  girl  you  meet.  Aren't  I  right?" 

But  he  only  said: 

"Come  and  see  if  I  don't  love  you.  We're  going  to  take  a 
half  holiday  and  motor  out  to  my  place  up  the  river.  You'll 
simply  go  crazy  over  it  and  I'm  dying  to  show  it  to  you.  Go 
and  powder  your  small  nose.  The  car's  waiting  outside  now." 

Of  course  he  left  the  chauffeur  behind  and  swung  the  two- 
seated  Rolls-Royce  in  and  out  of  the  traffic  like  a  mechanical 
angel.  At  the  first  opportunity  he  stretched  her  out  and  they 
ate  up  the  road  unconsciously  because  of  the  silence  and 
springing  of  a  perfect  car.  An  hour  and  a  half  brought 
them  to  an  old  Georgian  house  with  lawns  sloping  to  the  river 
bank.  He  led  her  with  gentle  impatience  through  the  glory  of 
the  old  house  by  terrace  and  pergola  to  the  landing-stage  and 
paddled  slowly  up  stream  with  Dolf  lying  on  the  silken  cushions 


218  DOLF 

of  the  punt,  too  restful  to  fret  over  life's  problems  or  care  what 
became  of  her.  He  made  tea  under  overhanging  trees  and  let 
her  play  blissfully  with  the  silver  spirit  kettle  and  cunningly  ar- 
ranged basket.  It  was  enough  to  see  her,  unbelievably  slender 
and  beautiful  to  his  eyes,  lying  on  his  cushions  in  his  punt, 
rejoicing  no  one  but  him. 

They  dined  alone  in  a  little  room  giving  onto  the  terrace. 
Afterward  the  inevitable  happened;  his  hand  found  hers,  his 
arms  went  round  her,  he  drew  her  head  against  his  shoulder 
and  kissed  her  lips  and  eyes,  the  creamy  throat  and  the  wavy 
hair  with  innumerable  and  diverse  kisses.  Some  were  cruel 
and  some  lay  so  lightly  they  scarcely  seemed  to  be  kisses  at  all. 
Dolf  acquiesced,  neither  striving  nor  crying.  When  his  passion 
should  have  exhausted  itself  her  moment  would  come,  not 
before. 

At  last  she  disengaged  herself  and  faced  him  with  something 
in  her  glance  he  could  not  gainsay,  that  made  the  little  room  a 
palace  of  truth. 

"You  don't  want  to  marry  me,  do  you?"  she  said  in  a  curious, 
level  voice. 

A  shadow  came  over  his  clean-cut,  strong  face.  Then  he  met 
her  gaze  frankly. 

"I'm  not  a  marrying  man,  Dolf.  My  life's  too  full,  and  any- 
way I  could  never  be  faithful  to  one  woman.  You  want  these 
little,  methodical  calculating  natures  for  that.  I  don't  think 
any  girl  is  big  enough  to  fill  my  life.  It  may  sound  like  con- 
ceit; of  course  the  most  ordinary  girl  in  some  respects  is  away 
up  above  any  man.  I  don't  want  children — at  any  rate  not 
at  the  price  of  sticking  to  one  girl  for  ever.  But  I  do  want  you, 
and  I  love  you,  and  I'll  be  so  good  to  you  you'll  never  regret 
it.  While  you're  with  me  I'll  give  you  the  most  wonderful  life 
— a  life  you  wouldn't  get  out  of  half-a-dozen  ordinary  mar- 
riages. Oh,  my  dear,  isn't  it  worth  it  to  distil  the  gold  out  of  a 
wonderful  love  affair  and  end  it  directly  it  begins  to  pall. 
What's  the  faithfulness  of  a  man  who's  tired  of  you  worth?" 


DOLF  219 

"As  much  as  one's  children,  one's  home,  one's  self-respect, 
I  suppose.  You  take  rather  a  lot  for  granted,  Geoffrey.  In  a 
moment  you'll  call  me  conventional,  as  if  it  wasn't  the  conven- 
tions men  have  made  for  them  that  tie  women  down.  Women 
aren't  really  more  what's  called  moral  than  men.  And  men 
always  have  two  standards — one  for  wives  and  one  for  not 
wives.  But  both  are  women." 

She  got  up  and  smoothed  her  ruffled  hair.  Her  face  was 
pale  and  very  tired. 

"Please  take  me  back,"  she  said.  "And,  oh,  Geoffrey,  don't 
begin  this  all  over  again,  for  Heaven's  sake.  Kiss  me  if  you 
like — I  don't  mind  and  you'll  soon  get  tired  of  it.  But  don't 
pretend  you  love  me.  It's  too  beautiful  a  word  to  me  for  you 
to  take  liberties  with.  Will  you  promise?" 

He  took  her  two  hands,  looked  down  at  her,  and  shook  his 
head.  He  was  exalted,  vital  and  the  thrill  that  radiated  from 
his  touch  made  her  feel  weak  and  light-headed. 

"I'll  make  you  love  me,"  he  told  her  with  a  sort  of  fierce 
gentleness  that  made  her  shiver,  because  she  knew  that  his 
greater  strength,  ruthlessly  exerted,  would  wear  her  down  in 
the  long  run  and  then  there  would  be  nothing  to  cling  to,  none 
to  help. 

In  desperation,  knowing  perfectly  well  the  futility  of  what 
she  did,  she  went  to  see  Philip  Heriot  on  some  manufactured 
errand.  She  found  him  dictating  letters  to  a  dark,  pretty  girl 
of  nineteen,  a  girl  with  deep,  inscrutable  eyes,  soft  curves  and 
definite  attraction,  who  cast  a  hostile  glance  at  Dolf  as  Philip 
murmured:  "Thank  you — that's  all,  Miss  Wayne,"  in  dis- 
missal. And  having  transacted  her  business,  Dolf  sat  back  in 
her  chair,  looked  him  in  the  eye  and  said: 

"I'm  going  to  trust  you.  Supposing  Fordham  gets  fond  of 
me,  what  am  I  to  do?  I  don't  want  to  leave.  I  must  earn 
my  living.  Tell  me  what  a  man's  attitude  is  to  a  girl  he  em- 
ploys— yours  to  that  pretty  kid  for  instance." 

The  public  spirit  of  men,  which  makes  them  play  up  to  one 


220  DOLF 

another,  cost  any  woman  what  it  may,  descended  on  Philip 
Heriot. 

"Oh,  well "  he  began  deprecatingly  and  paused,  "of 

course  Henrietta  and  I  are  pretty  good  pals.  One  must  be  on 
more  or  less  human  terms  with  a  secretary,  because  she  comes 
so  much  into  life.  I  always  say  it's  easier  to  change  a  wife  than 
a  secretary — supposing  one  had  a  wife.  A  new  wife  could  only 
wreck  your  home  whereas  a  new  secretary  can  wreck  your 
business.  I  shouldn't  worry  about  Fordham.  'Course  he  can't 
help  admiring  you,  if  I  may  say  so.  And  it  helps  you  to  be  a 
good  influence  in  his  life,  and  give  me  a  lift  if  he  cuts  up 
rough  with  me  over  anything." 

He  laughed  his  boyish,  optimistic  laugh,  and  Dolf  left  him 
much  as  she  had  found  him.  In  a  more  artistically  veiled  fash- 
ion she  placed  the  problem  before  Mrs.  Dawlish  when  that 
lady,  who  desired  to  obtain  an  advertisement  contract  from 
Fordham,  asked  her  to  tea. 

Dolf  sat  in  her  hostess'  tiny  perfect  flat.  The  boudoir  en- 
shrined photographs  of  many  men,  most  of  them  either 
famous  or  notorious  or  both.  Dolf  felt  the  flat  knew  as 
many  secrets  as  a  lovely,  wicked  woman.  Anyhow  it  made  a 
perfect  background  for  its  tenant,  who  lay  back  in  exactly 
the  right  chair  for  her  age  and  delivered  well-considered 
judgment. 

"After  all,  you're  not  a  child,  dear  young  lady,  and  Geoffrey's 
an  exceptional  man  and  exceptional  men  can't  be  treated  as 
if  they  were  commonplace.  Even  if  a  crisis  were  to  arise,  and 
you — er,  let  your  better  nature  carry  you  away,  girls  Fave 
done  these  things  before  and  survived.  We  live  in  a  charitable 
age.  And  in  any  case,  no  man  will  'love'  you  for  ever,  or  even 
for  very  many  years.  Better  a  rich  profitable  episode  than  a 
poor  eternity  married  to  a  man  who  'loves'  you  and  then  gets 
tired  of  you,  and  in  neither  condition  can  afford  to  do  you  well. 
Perhaps  I've  become  a  little  worldly,  but  marriage  always  seems 
to  me  so  much  more  tragic  than  divorce,  and  at  the  best  it's 


DOLF  221 

generally  the  anti-climax  of  a  honeymoon,  isn't  it?  How  much 
nicer  to  have  the  honeymoon  and  dodge  the  anti-climax?" 

"Yes,"  murmured  Dolf,  "and  how  positively  cosy  to  be  dead 
and  buried  and  away  from  these  problems.  Thanks,  awfully, 
Mrs.  Dawlish.  I've  enjoyed  myself  frightfully.  Good-bye." 

And  seeing  no  use  in  running  away  from  Fate  she  promised 
to  stay  the  following  week-end  at  Fordham's  riverside  house. 

Saturday  they  spent  on  the  river.  He  flung  at  her  feet  all 
the  charm  that  was  his;  he  gave  her  gifts  that  other  women 
had  suffered  and  smiled  to  endow  him  with;  since  men  come 
out  of  every  flirtation  more  fresh  and  women  more  tired  he 
flooded  her  with  the  vitality  of  other  women  and  lavished  on 
her  the  prettinesses  and  charm  they  had  taught  him. 

"God!"  he  said,  "what's  heaven  when  one  can  have  earth 
in  summer  time  and  the  one  perfect  girl?  Dolf,  darling,  you're 
simply  adorable.  You've  got  all  the  dearness  of  a  good  girl  and 
all  the  subtle  delightful  wickedness  that  a  man  longs  for  and 
never  finds.  Your  mouth's  a  beautiful  snare  and  your  arms 
are  two  lovely  lures  to  destruction.  When  I  think  some  other 
man  might  possess  you  I  could  die  with  misery.  How  perfect 
it'll  be  to  teach  you  to  love  me." 

She  lay  smiling  amid  the  boat  cushions  and  parried  this  man- 
madness  with  the  skill  that  comes  so  early  to  the  lonely  girls  of 
this  world. 

"Silly  ass!  I  don't  want  to  be  taught  to  love  you.  I  don't 
love  you  and  you'll  never  make  me.  I  want  to  be  taken  care 
of  and  not  have  always  to  be  on  the  defensive.  Oh,  Geoffrey, 
men  are  so  stupid.  Why  can't  they  learn  to  let  a  girl  just  be 
happy  and  not  rag  her?  How  would  you  like  someone  always 
to  look  as  if  he  wanted  to  burn  you  up  with  his  eyes — some- 
one immensely  stronger  and  bigger  than  you?" 

Then  in  a  gust  of  tenderness  he  bent  and  kissed  her  white 
silken  instep. 

"I  can  be  good  to  you,  too.     I  want  to  be  good  to  you. 


222  DOLF 

But  oh,  Dolf,  you're  such  a  lovely  thing,  and  you  understand 
me,  and  you  make  such  a  difference  to  life.  You're  all  that 
money  can't  buy,  and  you  lie  there  as  aloof  and  calm  as  if  I 
were  the  water-rate  man  or  anyone  else  that  doesn't  matter." 

"You  don't  matter.  You  never  will  matter.  I  just  put 
up  with  all  your  extravagance  because  I  can't  help  it.  You 
know  nothing  about  women,  Geoffrey.  You  give  them  every- 
thing that  only  costs  money,  and  for  the  rest  you're  just 
a  greedy  child  that's  never  been  refused  anything.  I  could 
hate  you  except  that  you  don't  know  what  you're  doing." 

His  eyes  seemed  to  become  very  large,  so  that  they  blotted 
out  the  sun  and  the  sky  and  the  world. 

"Dolf,  how  can  you  be  so  cruel  .   .   .?" 

And  so  it  began  all  over  again. 

Evening  brought  more  calm.  With  his  dinner  clothes  he 
seemed  to  become  sombre  and  stately.  He  waited  on  her  with 
a  sort  of  proud  humility  as  she  sat  like  a  white  flower  rising 
from  the  foliage  of  a  sleeveless,  shoulderless  black  frock.  But 
afterward  when  their  cigarettes  had  burnt  out,  he  drew  her 
to  him  and  broke  into  a  passion  of  kisses  that  left  her  limp  and 
exhausted.  She  put  her  hands  over  her  little  bruised  face  and 
begged  piteously  for  respite.  And  again,  moved  by  her  weak- 
ness, he  was  whirled  away  on  a  great  wave  of  pity  and  com- 
forted her  with  interminable  gossamer  caresses  and  murmured 
foolish  endearments.  And  at  last  he  let  her  go. 

On  Sunday  he  behaved  as  though  they  were  mere  friends, 
with  the  sheer  charm  instinct  in  men  of  his  kind.  They  mo- 
tored all  day  in  the  swift,  silent  car.  After  tea  he  showed 
her,  as  men  who  love  will,  little  intimate  things  in  his  life — 
school  photographs,  his  mother's  picture.  Dolf  looked  at  them 
with  the  remote  interest  that  attaches  to  relics  of  the  departed. 
These  things  belonged  to  his  other  life,  the  sheltered  polite 
side  of  him  where  no  unbridled  passions  ran — the  life  she  and 
her  kind  could  never  share. 

She  pleaded  to  go  to  bed  early.    In  the  calm  restfulness  of 


DOLF  223 

her  beautiful  room  the  mask  slipped  from  her  face  and  she 
knew  woman's  solitary  luxury  of  being  weary  without  dis- 
sembling. She  slipped  out  of  her  clothes  and  sat  in  the  sheer 
restfulness  of  a  silk  nightgown,  her  hair  about  her  bare  shoul- 
ders, studying  a  white,  tired  face  in  the  glass  with  gloomy 
stoicism. 

"God!"  she  murmured,  "I  feel  about  a  hundred." 

Someone  tapped  at  her  door.  The  handle  turned  before  she 
could  speak. 

"May  I  come  in?"  he  asked,  and  entered  without  waiting  for 
her  reply.  The  door  closed  behind  him. 

"Dolf,"  he  said,  "Dolf  ...  I  can't— I  must.  Look  at 
me,  Dolf." 

He  was  standing  by  her,  gazing  down.  There  was  not  so 
much  passion  in  his  face  as  an  irresistible  force,  a  world-shak- 
ing uncurbable  impulse  beyond  his  or  her  volition  or  inhibition. 
She  knew  it  would  sweep  both  of  them  before  it  and  the  price 
exacted  of  him  would  be  a  vague  illogical  regret  tempered  by 
pleasant  memories,  of  her  all  she  had.  She  twisted  in  the  chair 
to  face  him,  white  and  drawn-faced.  That  blinding  desire  in 
his  eyes  seemed  to  scorch  her  very  soul. 

"Don't!"  she  said  in  a  hoarse,  constricted  voice.  "Geoffrey, 
you  don't  know  what  you're  doing.  What  have  I  done 
to  you  that  you  want  to  bankrupt  me  of  all  I  ever  had?  You've 
got  money,  power,  good  looks,  the  right  sort  of  relatives  and 
you  can't  be  content.  I've  got  nothing  but  a  girl's  birthright — 
her  one  gift  to  give  the  man  she  loves,  and  you  want  to  take 
that  away.  Haven't  you  any  pity,  any  sympathy  at  all?" 

She  locked  her  fingers  in  her  lap  and  stared  up  at  him  with 
tears  running  down  her  face.  He  was  smiling  a  mirthless  un- 
earthly smile,  and  his  words  seemed  to  be  dragged  up  from  the 
roots  of  his  being,  as  their  words  must  have  been  dragged 
from  the  testifying  devils  in  the  gospel. 

"Listen,  Dolf.  At  the  bottom  of  everything  in  life  the 
strong  acquires  the  weak.  Some  man  will  get  you  some  day. 


224  DOLF 

You're  doomed,  as  your  kind  is  aways  doomed.  If  I  let  you  go 
it  would  be  to  someone  else.  I've  only  one  life.  If  I  have 
money  and  power,  as  you  said,  I've  worked  for  them,  and 
wrung  them  from  the  world,  and  held  them.  Why  should  I 
let  you  go?  Even  you  in  your  heart  will  despise  me  if  I  do. 
You  worship  force  like  all  women;  you  respect  a  ruthless  man 
while  you  fear  him.  What  arguments  have  you  got  left  now?" 

Dolf  was  choking  back  the  most  forlorn  sobs  she  had  ever 
known. 

"Do  you  remember  that  woman  in  the  Bible,  Geoffrey?  She 
had  only  one  offering  to  make,  a  box  of  ointment  that  was  very 
precious.  And  she  gave  it  and  it  was  accepted,  although  she 
wasn't  a  good  woman.  And  I  haven't  been  a  good  girl,  but 

all  that  I  ever  had  I  can  still  give  somebody  if "  her  voice 

sank  very  low — "if  anyone  in  the  world  will  ever  love  me 
enough  to  make  me  want  to.  Somehow,  what  you've  said 
seems  to  me  a — a  pretty  rotten  argument." 

He  came  nearer  and  ran  an  unsteady  hand  through  his  damp 
hair.  His  eyes  were  wild. 

"You  make  me  sound  an  awful  brute,  Dolf.  But  what  you 
say's  all  sentimental  nonsense.  You  won't  go  down  during 
your  good  times,  I  know.  But  sooner  or  later  you'll  strike  a 
bad  patch  and  then  you'll  be  anyone's  for  the  taking.  And  I 
don't  want  you  to  be  anyone's  but  mine.  And  you  are  mine." 

These  last  four  words  seemed  to  sweep  away  Dolf's  self- 
control.  Fordham  became  all  the  men  she  had  ever  known. 
She  had  revealed  to  him  a  sacred  ideal,  and  it  had  been  flung 
aside  as  a  trifle  to  be  trampled  on  in  that  selfish  male  passion, 
the  passion  to  own. 

She  went  white  as  chalk.  Her  slenderness  became  strength. 
Her  eyes  flashed  as  no  one  had  ever  before  seen  them  flash. 
She  took  a  swift  step  toward  him. 

"And  who  are  you,  to  demand  possession  of  me?  Do  you 
think  you're  different  from  all  the  men  who  hunt  and  stalk  us 
and  bring  us  to  bay?  If  you  could  see  yourself  now,  you'd 


DOLF  225 

know  you  look  just  like  all  the  rest  of  them,  because  you  want 
to  take,  not  give.  You  say  you  can  make  me  yours!  You 
can't!  You  could  make  my  body  yours,  but  you  wouldn't  have 
me,  not  the  smallest  least  bit  of  me,  and  you  never  can.  And  I 
hate  you  as  I  never  knew  I  could  hate  anyone  or  anything  in 
all  the  world." 

He  drew  back,  as  white  as  she. 

"I  shall  wait,"  he  said  unsteadily.    "You  see  I  can  afford  to." 
For  a  long  time  she  sat  by  herself  weeping.    Then  she  crept 
into  bed  and  prayed  incoherent  distracted  prayers  till  dawn 
brought  her  a  brief  troubled  sleep. 

There  being  no  one  else  to  consult,  she  went  again  to  see 
Philip  Heriot.  Somehow  that  polished,  smiling  young  man  in- 
spired her  with  confidence.  She  thought  one  could  hardly 
laugh  and  be  wicked  at  the  same  time.  But  Philip  Heriot 
was  out,  and  Dolf  only  encountered  the  pretty,  dark-haired 
secretary  in  his  private  office. 

"Mr.  Heriot  won't  be  back  to-day,"  said  Henrietta  Wayne 
with  chilling  politeness.  Then,  looking  at  Dolf  in  bitter  hos- 
tility, the  claws  seemed  to  steal  out  from  her  roseleaf,  mani- 
cured hands,  and  for  all  her  charm  and  prettiness  she  took  on 
the  sharpness  and  venom  of  steel. 

"I  know  who  you  are.  You've  got  Fordham.  Why  can't 
you  leave  Philip  alone?  We  were  perfectly  happy  till  you 
came.  Now  he's  restless  and  fidgetty  and  I  don't  know  what 
to  do.  You're  one  of  those  girls  who  can't  be  content  unless 
they're  stealing  someone  else's  man." 

Dolf  looked  at  her  with  new  eyes,  and  the  colour  flooded 
into  her  fair  face. 

"But — someone  else's — I  don't  understand." 

"Well,  since  you're  so  innocent,  I'm  Philip's.  I'm  pretty 
now,  but  my  looks  won't  last  for  ever  and  I'm  not  the 
sort  of  girl  to  drudge  for  two  or  three  pounds  a  week.  As  long 
as  they  do  last  I'll  make  the  most  of  them,  and  when  I'm  ugly 


226  DOLF 

I  may  be  rich  enough  to  do  without  them.  Anyway,  you're 
doing  the  same  as  me,  so  you  needn't  look  like  that." 

A  little  smile  broke  the  curve  of  Dolf 's  mouth.  She  nodded 
thoughtfully. 

"Thank  you,"  she  said.  "I  won't  wait.  Good-bye — and 
good  luck." 

In  a  fortnight  Fordham  asked  her  to  stay  with  him  again. 

"I've  tried  to  be  good,"  he  pleaded,  "and  I  swear  I'll  be 
very  gentle  with  you,  Dolf.  For  Heaven's  sake,  don't  hate  me 
so.  It  hurts,  it  does  really." 

"Does  it?"  she  answered,  with  a  dry  smile.  "When  do  you 
want  me  to  go?" 

"Next  week-end  if  you  can.    Why  not?" 

"As  you  say — why  not?"  she  murmured. 

On  Friday  afternoon  she  borrowed  the  car  and  the  chauffeur 
to  make  a  few  final  purchases. 

"It's  no  use,"  she  whispered  to  herself  while  the  Rolls- 
Royce  purred  silkily  along  sunlit  Piccadily.  "No  girl  can 
resist  for  ever.  Men  wear  you  down  with  sheer  persistence.  You 
get  to  a  point  when  you  realise  that  there's  no  escape  from 
fate.  They're  too  strong,  too  ruthless,  too  inflexible.  If  one's 
nerves  didn't  give  out  they  wouldn't  win,  but  nerves  don't  last 
for  ever.  And  after  all  it's  quite  a  small  matter  really,  I  sup- 
pose. I  daresay  I'm  a  fool  and  make  a  great  fuss." 

And  then,  with  a  sickening  rush,  panic  seized  her.  Her 
heart  beat,  her  pulses  raced  till  she  could  have  screamed.  Rea- 
son fled  on  swift  wings  of  terror  and  there  remained  only  a 
blind  instinct  of  flight. 

Trembling,  she  lifted  the  speaking  tube  and  checked  the  car 
at  a  shop  on  the  corner  of  a  side  street.  She  slipped  into  it 
by  one  door  and  out  at  another  and  fled  unseen  into  the  depths 
of  an  underground  station.  In  three-quarters  of  an  hour  she 
was  steaming  out  of  Paddington,  with  a  ticket  bearing  the  name 
of  a  remote  village  in  Cornwell.  To  her  aching  eyes  the  flying 
landscape  seemed  the  sweetest  sight  in  the  world. 


DOLF  227 

The  dining  car  attendant  broke  in  on  her  dreams  with  his 
banal  query  about  tea.  After  any  crisis  nothing  seems  so  dear 
as  the  commonplaces  of  every  day. 

She  thanked  him  gratefully,  and  he  looked  down  at  her  with 
a  friendly  smile.  He  had  a  daughter  at  home  almost  exactly 
her  age. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

BUT  no  money  lasts  for  ever,  and  work  is  hard  to  find  espe- 
cially if  a  girl  looks  too  pretty  to  be  good  and  her  clothes  are 
too  costly  for  any  income  she  is  likely  to  earn. 

The  obscene  spirits  of  the  night  seemed  to  catch  their  breath 
and  hover,  ears  cocked,  listening  for  the  scream  of  the  victim, 
the  brief  struggle,  the  panting  of  triumphant  pursuit,  the  death 
note  in  the  music  of  exulting  hounds  .  .  . 

Down  the  glistening,  deserted  street  Dolf  hurried  to  the  limit 
of  a  decorous  walk,  on  panic-stricken  feet  that  dared  not  run. 
You  do  not  run  unquestioned  in  London  at  night,  a  wet  night 
of  autumn  sinister  with  chill  rain  and  a  subtle  bitterness  of 
wind.  For  uncounted  aeons  she  seemed  to  have  twisted  and 
doubled  up  side  streets,  down  bright  lighted  thoroughfares,  yet 
he  would  not  be  flung  off.  Steadily  from  behind  came  the  re- 
morseless clip-clop  of  his  seeking  footsteps,  unhurried,  pitiless; 
they  gained  on  her  with  grim  certainty.  The  wild  terror  of 
fatigue  beat  upon  her  like  great  black  wings;  she  pictured  him 
— tall,  gaunt,  with  looming  shoulders,  and  cruel  covetous  eyes 
leering  above  a  dark  tangle  of  beard.  She  walked  half  crouch- 
ing from  the  expectation  of  a  hand  clutching  her  shoulder. 

She  hurried  along,  turned  sharp  to  the  left  and  beat  west- 
ward out  of  control,  derelict,  fright-maddened.  The  footsteps 
pursued.  He  was  very  close  now.  She  fought  desperately  for 
words,  a  plan,  any  trick  by  which  to  fool  him. 

Straight  ahead  loomed  a  doorway,  dimly-lit.  Without  a  co- 
herent thought  she  turned  in,  scrabbled  wildly  at  the  heavy  hall 
door  and  slammed  it  behind  her  in  his  teeth.  She  leant  against 
it,  hands  clutching  at  her  panting  breast,  on  the  point  of  col- 
lapse. 

228 


DOLF  229 

"Nerve,"  she  thought,  "doesn't  last  forever.  Mine  just 
went." 

When  many  minutes  later  she  peered  cautiously  out  the  man 
was  gone. 

She  lingered  for  a  time,  however,  before  she  left  her  shelter. 

He  seemed  to  typify  the  world  as  it  had  now  resolved  itself 
to  Dolf;  hard,  selfish,  preying,  male.  Looking  for  work,  she 
had  turned  her  hand  to  a  few  unskilled  jobs  which  sheer 
loathing  made  her  give  up.  What  was  to  come  next  heaven 
alone  knew,  but  she  now  saw  she  must  go  to  Netta  for  help. 
After  two  months  of  practical  idleness  she  had  left  the  flat,  re- 
fusing to  live  on  Netta  and  unwilling  to  risk  a  dwindling  capi- 
tal on  the  sharing  of  her  rent.  Living  cheaply  close  by  she  often 
saw  Netta  but  would  never  agree  to  borrow  money.  To-night 
she  saw  that  for  once  she  would  have  to  conquer  her  pride. 

Netta  was  alone,  and  in  possession  of  good  news. 

"I  met  a  man  named  Quantock  the  other  night.  He  was 
Senlake's  solicitor  in  the  divorce.  Quantock  gave  me  his  own 
address,  and  a  letter  care  of  him  will  reach  Senlake.  Why 
don't  you  write  to  him?" 

"Isn't  it  too  late  now?"  Dolf  objected.  "He  was  a  dear,  but 
he  never  thought  of  me  unless  I  reminded  him  of  me — I  mean 
after  the  Flettrette  days.  Besides,  he'd  see  I'm  down  and  out, 
and  that  would  make  him  feel  he  had  to  help  me,  and  I  don't 
suppose  he's  any  too  well  off.  I  fancy  he  wants  to  be  let 
alone  after  what  happened  to  his  wife." 

"But  wouldn't  you  like  him  to  know  it  wasn't  your  fault  you 
never  went  to  see  him?" 

"Yes,  but  that's  only  my  vanity  wanting  it.  In  reality  he 
didn't  care  whether  I  went  or  not." 

"Suppose  he  needs  helping,  cheering  up,  encouraging?  And 
at  least  if  he  didn't  want  to  see  you  he  could  find  an  excuse." 

"I  don't  know,"  Dolf  considered.    "I'll  think  it  over." 

The  next  day  she  wrote  to  him: 


230  DOLF 

"DEAR  GUY: 

"Your  letter  got  lost  at  the  theatre,  and  I  didn't  get  it 
for  months.  I  went  straight  to  your  address  but  you'd  gone.  I  want 
you  to  know  I  didn't  fail  you.  Can  I  do  anything  to  prove  it? 

"Dou." 

Ten  days  passed  without  an  answer. 

At  the  end  of  that  time  her  money  from  Netta  was  gone. 
Her  landlady  took  pains  to  present  an  ultimatum,  which  she 
delivered  one  evening  in  a  loud  voice  in  the  lower  hall.  Dolf 
stood  pale  and  weary,  incapable  of  thought.  The  landlady, 
quite  out  of  breath,  started  towards  the  street  door  which 
Dolf  had  left  open.  Instead  of  closing  it  she  admitted  a  man 
who  had  evidently  been  about  to  ring. 

"Does  Miss  Farmer  live  here?"  he  asked. 

Dolf,  who  had  started  limply  to  ascend  the  stairs,  turned 
and  gazed  down  at  Senlake. 

"Guy!"  she  exclaimed  weakly.  But  her  eyes  had  brightened 
as  if  they  beheld  the  Land  of  Promise. 

"Well,  dear  thing,"  he  smiled  as  he  took  her  hand  firmly. 
And  that  clasp  and  his  voice  and  the  look  in  his  eyes  gave  her 
the  illusion  that  they  had  parted  only  the  day  before. 

"I'm  so  glad,"  she  was  murmuring  through  a  mist  of  tears. 

"I've  only  just  got  your  letter,  you  see,"  he  explained,  still 
holding  her  hand.  "Quantock  doesn't  forward  them;  I  go 
there  once  a  fortnight  or  so  and  see  if  there  are  any.  Will 
you  come  and  have  dinner  somewhere,  please,  if  you  can  put  up 
with  me?" 

"I'd  love  to!"  she  cried,  laughing  now  half  hysterically.  "Ill 
only  be  five  minutes  if  you'll  just  wait  for  me."  She  darted 
up  the  stairs.  The  landlady,  who  had  lingered  somewhere  in 
the  background,  approached  rather  doubtfully.  Senlake  looked 
at  her  as  if  she  were  not  there. 

"How  much  does  Miss  Farmer  owe  you?"  he  asked  at  last. 

She  told  him,  and  when  he  had  paid  her  there  was  very  little 
left  in  his  note-case.  He  went  out  to  wait  for  Dolf  in  the 
fresh  air.  The  house  seemed  to  stifle  him. 


DOLF  231 

What  Dolf  first  noticed  as  she  studied  him  across  the  little 
restaurant  table  was  that  he  seemed  at  once  older  and  stronger, 
with  a  new  philosophy  of  life. 

"I'm  working,"  he  explained.  "I  went  in  for  engineering 
once,  and  I'd  have  stuck  to  it  if  I  hadn't  come  into  money. 
The  money  let  me  marry  Sonia.  It's  finished  now,  and  so's 
the  marriage.  I  daresay  you've  heard?" 

She  nodded. 

"Well,  I've  got  a  job  now  running  a  machine  shop  for  a  big 
engineering  firm.  It's  hard  work  and  rotten  pay,  but  that'll 
improve  in  time.  I  rather  enjoy  it  because  it  helps  me  to  for- 
get. Now  tell  me  about  you." 

Food  and  wine  had  helped  Dolf,  together  with  the  joy  of 
being  with  him.  She  described  her  life  since  she  had  seen  him 
last,  gilding  the  joys  and  softening  the  sorrows.  But  all  at 
once  she  faltered,  pale  and  exhausted. 

"I've  been  going  about  all  day,"  she  explained,  with  a  faint 
smile.  "Don't  worry,  it's  quite  all  right." 

Senlake,  who  always  understood,  mocked  her  gently. 

"I  heard  what  your  landlady  said.  Don't  try  to  pretend. 
I've  seen  where  you  live,  and  you  can't  go  back  there.  I've 
got  a  little  empty  room  on  my  top  floor  in  Gosport  Street;  it 
goes  with  the  one  I  live  in,  and  I  only  keep  some  kit  there. 
You  could  sleep  in  it  and  use  the  other  room  in  the  day.  You'd 
be  alone  all  day.  There's  a  door  between  them  you  could  lock. 
I  don't  want  you  to  feel  under  an  obligation  so  may  I  offer  you 
a  pound  a  week  to  housekeep  and  darn  socks  and  sew  on  but- 
tons?" 

"If  you'll  let  me — just  for  a  little,  until  my  luck  turns  or 
you're  tired  of  me,"  she  said  smiling  through  gathering  tears. 
In  the  taxi  she  slipped  one  hand  in  his  for  comfort  and  he 
stroked  her  fingers  with  a  gentleness  that  went  to  her  weary 
heart. 

She  followed  him  passively  up  hundreds  and  hundreds  of 
stairs.  It  seemed  rather  like  a  dream  in  which  some  Pied  Piper 


232  DOLF 

lured  her  she  knew  not  whither.  The  stairs  wound  up  and  up, 
and  the  air  came  laden  with  a  stuffy  scent  of  old  woodwork, 
long-past  cooking  and  decay. 

On  the  topmost  landing  he  flung  open  a  door  and  stood  back 
for  her  to  enter.  She  passed  into  a  large  room  as  perfectly  neat 
and  soulless  as  a  barrack,  furnished  only  with  a  camp  bed,  its 
blankets  carefully  folded  soldier  fashion,  a  table,  and  two  chairs. 
A  couple  of  boxes  at  one  end  apparently  contained  all  the  ten- 
ant's possessions,  apart  from  a  few  enamelled  table  appoint- 
ments on  a  shelf. 

"Sit  down,"  said  Senlake.  "I'm  going  to  make  coffee,"  and 
he  began  to  occupy  himself  with  a  small  portable  gas-stove 
fed  by  an  India-rubber  tube.  He  paused  and  looked  across  at 
her. 

"When  I  cook  it  smells  like  blazes,  but  it  can't  be  helped." 

"I'll  not  mind,"  she  answered  gaily.  At  the  same  time  all 
volition  seemed  to  have  left  her.  She  watched  in  idle  content 
while  with  deft  ease  he  boiled  coffee,  and  set  the  result  before 
her,  together  with  a  cigarette  and  a  match. 

"We'd  better  light  a  fire  in  your  honour,  I  think,"  he  sug- 
gested. And  kneeling  by  the  grate  he  coaxed  a  blaze  out  of 
damp  wood  and  coal  with  the  same  second-hand  skill  he  had 
displayed  over  his  coffee-making.  Then,  leaning  against  the 
mantel-piece  he  savoured  thoughtfully  the  acrid  smoke  of  a 
cheap  Virginia  cigarette  and  surveyed  her  while  drinking  his 
coffee. 

She  leant  back  in  his  one  wicker  arm-chair  and  the  cigarette 
smoke  streaked  idly  ceiling-ward  between  her  fingers.  Colour 
had  run  into  her  cheeks  and  strength  came  back  to  her  voice. 
New  courage  to  face  a  hostile  world  lifted  her  chin  almost  de- 
fiantly. 

Silence  fell  on  the  plain,  scantily  furnished  room.  Both,  with- 
out looking  at  one  another,  seemed  to  be  stretching  out  inquir- 
ing spiritual  antennae,  groping  vaguely  for  the  truth  which 
they  felt  was  in  each  other.  A  cinder  fell  from  time  to  time 


DOLF  233 

in  the  grate;  rain  slashed  wickedly  against  the  blinded,  un- 
curtained window.  It  seemed  to  Dolf  she  would  always  be 
sitting  in  a  basket  chair  gazing  into  a  fire  and  had  never  done 
anything  else  all  her  life. 

At  last  he  pitched  the  stub  of  his  cigarette  into  the  grate 
and  met  her  eyes  with  two  steady  grey  ones. 

"This  life,  Dolf,"  he  said,  "if  you  can  only  realise  it,  is 
utterly  simple.  It  comes  down  to  eating,  sleeping  and  doing 
such  necessary  things  as  enable  us  to  eat  and  sleep — no  more. 
All  the  frills  and  embroideries  are  mere  eye-wash  faked  up  by 
idle  people  with  accidental  money,  who  needn't  do  necessary 
things  for  themselves,  and  they  call  it  civilisation.  You  and  I 
are  such  infinite  grains  of  dust  whirled  before  the  wind  of  cre- 
ation that  all  our  yearnings  and  strivings  and  agonisings  really 
matter  no  more  than  the  struggles  of  a  fly  with  soaked  wings. 
If  I  give  you  an  opportunity  to  eat  and  sleep  and  clothe 
yourself  it's  nothing.  You  aren't  to  be  grateful — and  you'll  be 
absolutely  on  your  own.  And  any  time  you  choose  you  can 
walk  straight  out.  And  now  I  think  you  ought  to  go  to  bed. 
You  look  done  in." 

She  reached  up  weary  arms  and  unpinned  her  hat.  He 
looked  consideringly  at  the  mass  of  her  hair,  said  nothing,  and 
led  her  into  an  adjoining  room,  swept  and  clean.  He  lit  the 
naked  gas  jet  and  carried  the  camp  bed  from  his  room  to  hers, 
retaining  only  one  blanket  out  of  four.  He  made  down  the  bed 
for  her,  added  an  enamelled  basin  and  jug  of  water,  soap  and  a 
clean  towel. 

"We'll  get  more  things  to-morrow,"  he  explained.  "I'll  carry 
on  quite  well  in  the  meantime.  I  have  breakfast  at  seven,  but 
don't  get  up.  I'll  leave  yours  ready  for  once,  as  you're  tired. 
Good-night!" 

The  door  closed  behind  him  and  she  turned  the  key.  Her 
eyes  wandered  vaguely  from  the  sheetless  bed  to  the  jug  and 
basin  on  the  floor,  and  back  again. 

"It  might  be  prison,  and  there  isn't  a  looking-glass,"  she 


234  DOLF 

murmured.  Then  the  picture  of  the  man  who  with  bitter  eyes 
had  stripped  life  to  the  bare  bones  passed  through  her  mind 
and  she  smiled  almost  maternally.  So  he  did  not  love  his 
work.  But  did  he  still  love  his  wife? 

She  undressed,  shivering  a  little,  and  knelt  on  the  bare 
boards  beside  the  narrow  bed,  and  said  those  prayers  women 
do  say,  not  so  much  because  they  believe  in  anything  definite 
as  because  they  need  prayer  as  a  safety  valve  in  order  to  make 
life  bearable.  Then  she  crept  into  bed  and  slept  since,  as  he 
said,  she  was  weary. 

For  a  month  they  lived  quietly,  uneventfully.  His  days 
never  differed  one  from  another  by  a  hair's  breadth.  He  left 
at  seven-thirty,  he  returned  at  seven  in  the  evening.  To- 
gether they  ate  their  meal  and  cleared  it  away.  Sometimes  they 
smoked  and  talked,  sometimes  they  walked  in  Hyde  Park, 
otherwise  she  read  the  books  he  lent  her. 

For  the  time  being  she  made  no  effort  to  find  work.  She 
kept  house  for  him,  did  his  sewing,  mothered  him,  and  found 
in  it  all  a  dangerous  sweetness.  For  the  first  time  in  her 
life  she  was  happy  because  someone  in  a  sense  depended  on 
her.  It  was  like  being  married  with  all  the  stress  and  friction 
and  emotion  of  marriage  fined  away.  She  was  very  moved 
by  this  man  who  earned  his  living  uncomplainingly  after  years 
of  dreaming  and  idleness,  who  lived  like  an  anchorite,  and 
played  fair  with  her.  She  had  no  anxieties.  She  rested  her 
body  and  mind  and  her  cheeks  bloomed,  her  eyes  shone 
with  health,  and  her  skin  acquired  a  satin  texture.  She  was 
temptation  incarnate  at  his  very  door,  and  she  might  have 
been  literally  his  sister. 

At  the  end  of  a  month  he  fell  ill.  He  came  home  one  night 
shivering,  with  the  flush  of  fever  in  his  face,  a  mass  of  aches 
and  pains.  He  went  straight  to  bed,  and  she  cared  for  him, 
making  up  his  fire  and  bringing  him  hot  milk.  In  the  morn- 
ing he  seemed  no  better,  and  drifted  into  snatches  of  delirium. 


DOLF  235 

"You'd  better  have  a  doctor,  Guy,"  she  told  him.  "Ill 
go  and  find  one.  You'll  be  all  right  till  I  come  back,  won't 
you?" 

"I  s'pose  you'd  better.  And  will  you  telephone  the  works? 
Oh  damn!  This  is  going  to  upset  everything.  I'm  so  sorry, 
Dolf." 

The  weary  eyes  smiled  at  her  and  her  answering  smile  was 
dangerously  gentle. 

"Don't  forget,  you  little  fool!"  she  murmured  as  she  fled 
down  the  stairs.  "Just  because  being  ill  puts  him  in  your 
power — " 

The  doctor  took  the  patient's  temperature,  frowned  because 
it  was  a  hundred  and  three  point  something,  saw  Dolf  was 
capable,  gave  instructions  and  left. 

For  two  days  Senlake  was  very  ill  indeed.  He  babbled  light- 
headedly  of  things  and  people  such  as  Dolf  had  known  at 
second-hand  from  not  a  few  men.  And  constantly,  in  all 
variations  of  despair,  he  spoke  of  Sonia,  the  woman  who  had 
kicked  him  into  the  gutter.  At  times  he  half  recognised  his 
nurse. 

"Dolf — dear  little  Dolf,"  he  murmured  once  in  delirium,  "I'll 
play  fair,  I  won't  hurt  you.  I'll  keep  myself  in  hand.  You're 
safe  with  me,  dear.  Only  grains  of  dust,  but  a  bargain's  a  bar- 
gain. .  .  ." 

He  fell  asleep  afterward,  as  if  even  in  delirium  his  self- 
mastery  had  calmed  him.  But  Dolf  sat  by  the  bed,  wide- 
eyed  before  the  revelation.  He  did  want  her!  Too  honest 
to  take  her,  yet  he  had  wanted  her  and  mastered  himself 
because  a  bargain's  a  bargain. 

She  gazed  at  him  as  he  lay  there,  and  gazing  realised  the  one 
perfect  need  in  a  shifting  world.  She  loved  him;  she  could 
give  herself  to  him  because  she  loved  him. 

Her  thoughts  fled  back  to  the  first  night  on  which  she  had 
met  him,  in  the  dark  of  the  Tallentyre  Square  boarding- 
house.  His  voice,  even  then  gentle  and  understanding  as 


236  DOLF 

later  when  they  knew  each  other,  was  the  voice  of  the  man  she 
loved.    She  had  always  loved  him  and  never  known  till  now. 

But  he  cared  irrevocably  for  another  woman! 

"No  matter,"  she  murmured.  "He  wants  me.  Well,  he 
shall  have  me.  I  won't  be  ashamed  to  tell  him  I  love  him.  I 
can  grow  to  be  what  he'd  like.  I  can  persuade  him  to  teach 
me  how.  I  can  be  his,  and  make  him  forget  every  other 
woman  in  the  world  in  my  arms." 

Finally  the  fever  passed  off  and  he  lay  quiet  and  weak 
watching  as  she  came  and  went.  There  were  tired  lines  under 
her  eyes,  but  she  looked  very  happy.  She  had  fought  Death 
for  him  and  won,  and,  whatever  might  happen  in  the  long 
run,  he  was  hers  and  no  one  else's  for  the  time  being.  Lying 
there  his  eyes  saw  very  clearly  as  sick  men's  do,  so  that  when 
she  approached  he  murmured  her  name. 

"Dolf!" 

She  came  to  the  bedside  smiling  a  little  shyly. 

"What  do  you  want,  old  thing?" 

"Bend  down,"  he  whispered. 

She  knelt  beside  him  and  he  drew  her  head  down  to  his 
pillow  and  stroked  it  tenderly. 

"You  dear!"  he  murmured  over  and  over  again. 

She  did  not  move.  The  tears  gathered  in  her  eyes  and  rolled 
down  her  face  while  she  stayed,  leaning  her  head  against 
his.  And  because  she  knew  it  might  not  last  she  secretly 
gave  him  all  the  love  in  her  heart  for  a  free  gift  that  asked 
no  return  and  needed  none.  Then,  with  a  faint  shiver,  she 
rose  because  there  were  things  to  be  done  for  him  and  life 
must  go  on. 

At  last  he  was  back  at  the  old  routine,  going  early  to  work, 
returning  dog-tired  in  the  evening.  She  watched  over  him 
always  with  that  more  than  maternal  instinct  of  a  woman 
for  the  man  she  loves.  And  at  last  the  whole  world  went  to 
pieces  at  her  feet. 

She  had  been  out  shopping.     She  returned  in  a  mood  of 


DOLF  237 

quiet  happiness  to  find  Guy  staring  moodily  into  the  empty 
grate.  On  the  air  hung  a  subtle  penetrating  perfume.  It 
could  not  have  been  Netta's,  for  Netta  used  nothing  but 
Shem  el  Nessim. 

Swift  jealousy  invaded  Dolf's  heart.  Some  woman  out  of 
his  past,  perhaps  one  of  his  own  kind,  one  of  that  safe,  pro- 
tected irresistible  race. 

She  saw  Guy's  face  tense  and  profoundly  bitter.  In  a  flash 
she  knew  with  whom  the  perfume  was  associated.  She  had 
savoured  it  before  in  Sonia  Senlake's  boudoir. 

"So,"  asserted  Dolf  almost  inaudibly,  "she's  been  here?" 

"Yes,"  he  answered  briefly  and  resumed  his  work. 

She  did  not  utter  a  word  in  reply.  She  prepared  the  supper 
and  called  him  to  it  and  they  ate  in  silence.  Then  he  went 
out,  without  speaking  and  she  had  gone  to  bed  long  before 
she  heard  him  return. 

In  the  morning  he  called  that  he  was  leaving  before  break- 
fast. 

Somehow  she  lived  through  the  day.  Nevertheless  when 
night  came  she  had  gathered  courage,  prepared  a  meal  and 
schooled  herself  to  meet  him  as  though  nothing  had  happened. 
Her  longing  to  comfort  him  amounted  to  pain,  but  she  said 
nothing. 

To  her  relief  he  seemed  more  natural,  but  soon  she  realised 
that  he  had  changed  in  a  way  she  could  not  define  until  a  few 
days  later.  Then  she  understood  it,  and  her  heart  contracted 
with  desolation. 

The  thing  that  had  been  in  his  eyes  was  gone.  He  had 
returned  to  his  old  attitude  of  impersonal  friendship.  She 
could  not  hold  him;  he  had  ceased  to  want  her. 

Sonia's  mockery  haunted  the  attic,  and  Dolf  knew  that  the 
end  of  the  idyll  had  come. 

She  would  not  leave  him  abruptly,  but  she  would  go. 

"You  must  get  a  job,"  she  told  herself.    "It's  up  to  you." 

All  next  day  she  studied  advertisements  and  made  plans. 


238  DOLE 

She  was  throwing  the  paper  aside  when  a  paragraph  caught 
her  eye. 

"Interesting  Business  Combine:  Mr.  Thomas  Wainwright, 
O.B.E.,  to  be  Managing  Director  of  the  Amalgamated  Stores." 

The  paragraph  went  on  to  describe  the  amazing  career  of  a 
young  man  whose  father,  dying  at  the  outbreak  of  the  great 
war,  had  left  him  a  prosperous  village  grocery  which  he  con- 
verted into  a  little  gold-mine  through  the  neighbourhood  be- 
coming a  training  centre  for  troops.  Now,  thanks  to  enterprise 
and  ability  he  had  acquired  a  controlling  interest  in  the  Amal- 
gamated Stores,  one  of  the  best  known  multiple-shop  organi- 
sations in  the  country. 

She  put  down  the  paper  and  relapsed  once  more  into  deep 
thought. 

"So  the  first  sweetheart  I  ever  had  is  one  of  the  richest 
men  in  the  country!" 

Clear  and  sharp  as  a  cinema  film  there  rose  before  her  men- 
tal vision  the  old  picture  of  herself  throwing  pebbles  at  Tom 
Wainwright's  window,  and  begging  him  to  take  her  away 
anywhere  from  the  drudgery  and  cruelty  of  home.  It  was 
followed  by  other  pictures;  London,  four  years  ago;  Johannes- 
burg; the  night  at  the  theatre;  four  intimate  views  of  the 
Napoleon  of  Grocers,  the  man  of  Career.  And  she  remem- 
bered how,  whenever  fate  threw  them  together,  she  could 
always  impress  him  by  her  propriety  and  intelligence,  while 
intriguing  his  male  nature.  As  for  the  last,  he  was  too  near 
his  goal  to  threaten  embarassment  to  her  on  the  score  of  sex. 
He  might  like  her  in  the  office;  she  could  lend  it  distinction 
and  beauty.  Occasionally  he  might  take  her  to  dine.  But 
nothing  further  would  result,  or  if  he  should  have  any  further 
impulse  she  could  check  it,  for  he  would  do  nothing  foolish 
with  his  eye  on  the  glittering  goal  of  Success. 

"He  must  have  heaps  of  jobs  going,"  she  decided.  "And 
if  I  play  my  cards  well  it's  quite  possible.  Anyway,  I've  got 
to  do  something  and  this  is  just  a  chance." 


DOLF  239 

She  went  across  to  her  little  room  and  counted  over  the 
pounds  Guy  had  given  her.  There  were  ten  of  them  un- 
touched. Smiling  a  little  bitterly,  she  told  herself  the  best 
use  she  could  make  of  his  money  was  to  rid  him  of  her.  She 
put  on  hat  and  coat,  and  went  out  slowly,  unwillingly,  to  per- 
fect her  plans. 

There  existed  a  man  dressmaker  to  whom  in  her  prosperous 
days  she  had  brought  custom.  To  him  she  went  now  and 
outlined  the  situation. 

"I  want  to  be  fitted  out  decently  from  head  to  foot,"  she 
told  him.  "I've  got  ten  pounds  in  the  world,  and  it's  a  gamble 
but  if  it  comes  off  neither  of  us  will  lose.  Can  you  do  any- 
thing for  me?" 

He  eyed  her  narrowly.  He  was  used  to  such  things  in  his 
particular  sphere  of  business.  If  she  had  looked  worn,  hag- 
gard, down-trodden  he  would  have  set  his  face  against  her. 
But  as  this  world  goes  she  held  good  cards,  and  he  assented 
grudgingly.  For  this  reason  she  entered  the  Regent  Street 
offices  of  the  Amalgamated  Stores  next  morning,  armed  at  all 
points  with  the  subtle  feminine  weapons  of  her  slight  young 
beauty  backed  by  a  faultess  gown,  hat,  shoes  and  stockings. 

There  received  Dolf  Mr.  Webber,  the  typical  human  filter 
of  the  self-made  business  man  to  sort  out  the  sheep  among 
visitors  from  the  goats.  He  had  no  age;  he  might  have  been 
forty  or  fifty;  his  thin,  anxious  face,  indefinite  moustache 
and  punctilious  clothes  bore  witness  of  his  many  stripes.  He 
resembled  an  elderly  horse  clipped,  groomed,  bitted  and 
whipped  into  unnatural  briskness.  With  obvious  misgivings, 
Mr.  Webber  counted  Dolf  unto  himself  for  righteousness  and 
passed  her  up  into  a  bright,  shining,  soulless  waiting-room. 
She  sat  in  the  sort  of  arm-chair  only  to  be  found  in  such 
places  and  mused  triumphantly.  Mr.  Webber  had  given  her  the 
measure  of  the  new  Tom  Wainwright. 

The  great  man  received  her  in  an  apartment  voluptuous 
with  Turkey  carpet,  massive  writing-table,  opulent  bookcases 


240  DOLF 

and  solid  bronze  telephone  instrument.  Morning  dress  clad 
his  well-nourished  figure.  He  was  sitting  back  in  a  padded 
swing  chair  and  he  did  not  rise  when  she  entered.  But  sud- 
denly seeing  who  she  was,  he  got  to  his  feet. 

"Well,  Dolf !  My  word!  Good  of  you  to  call."  He  placed 
a  chair,  somewhat  ostentatiously.  "I  s'pose  you  saw  the  news 
in  the  papers.  How  are  you?  I  must  say  you  look  pros- 
perous enough."  His  gaze  dwelt  approvingly  on  her. 

"Oh  yes,"  she  smiled.  "But  you're  a  busy  man,  I  know, 
so  I'm  not  going  to  keep  you." 

He  glanced  at  an  ornate  silver  clock,  as  if  implying  that 
every  minute  wasted  on  visitors  cost  him  at  least  a  thousand 
pounds. 

"Still,"  she  went  on  smoothly,  "I  do  enjoy  seeing  how 
you  look  now  you've  got  on.  It's  really  rather  difficult  to 
live  up  to  a  great  success,  isn't  it?  One  generally  under-does 
it  or  over-does  it." 

His  ever-alert  vanity  bristled  almost  laughably.  He  had 
a  pathetic  pride  in  his  own  achievement.  But  the  under- 
current of  shrewdness  that  had  made  him  what  he  was 
saved  him. 

"Well,"  he  retorted  with  sham  jovialty,  "which  do  I  do?" 

She  stroked  his  ruffled  feelings  with  the  velvet  of  "her  voice. 

"Oh,  neither,  of  course.  I  said  I  wanted  to  see,  and  now 
I  have  seen,  I  congratulate  you,  Tom.  The  room,  for  instance, 
is  perfect." 

She  glanced  about  in  simulated  admiration.  "And  you've 
got  a  fearf'ly  discreet  secretary.  He  looked  me  over  from 
head  to  foot." 

"Ah  yes,  old  Webber.  He  knows  his  place  where  I'm  con- 
cerned. I  s'pose  you've  done  well  too?  I  haven't  seen  your 
name  in  the  papers,  but  then,  I'm  too  busy  to  keep  track, 
of  those  things." 

"Oh,  I've  given  up  the  stage,"  she  explained. 

"What?     So  you've  lost  all  your  big  ambitions?" 


DOLF  241 

She  saw  his  respect  waning  and  hastened  to  reinstate  her- 
self. 

"I  was  too  impatient.  And  the  Chief  wanted  to  make  love 
to  me;  they  always  do  in  the  long  run.  Besides,  I  hadn't 
enough  talent.  You  see  it's  only  people  like  you,  who  know 
they'll  reach  the  top,  who  succeed.  I  mean,  you  either  know 
it  and  do  it,  or  you  only  think  you  know  it  till  you  find  out 
it  isn't  so,  and  then  you  give  up.  I'd  never  be  content  with 
getting  half-way." 

"Too  bad!"  he  mused.  "Yet  you're  busy  at  something?  You 
look  too  prosperous  not  to  be.  And  wonderfully  pretty, 
Dolf,  d'you  know?" 

"Oh,  one  can't  stand  still,"  she  laughed.  "And  of  course 
I  immediately  looked  out  for  something  else.  I  still  mean 
to  have  my  career.  So  I  became  Fordham's  confidential  secre- 
tary,— Fordham  of  United  Undertakings,  you  know.  He's 
a  pretty  big  man,  but  when  I  was  on  the  stage  I  met  a  good 
many  influential  people.  In  fact  there  are  one  or  two  rather 
attractive  things  in  the  wind,  though  of  course  they  wouldn't 
interest  you.  You've  enough  of  your  own.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  I'm  seeking  a  wider  scope  than  Fordham  can  offer." 

If  his  head  had  been  made  of  glass  she  could  not  have  read 
his  thoughts  more  easily.  Fordham's  confidential  secretary 
disengaged!  Everyone  knew  Geoffrey  Fordham,  a  big  man 
if  ever  there  was  one.  Perfectly  sure  of  herself,  with  that 
easy  way  that  got  round  people.  And  he  felt  none  too  well 
at  home  in  the  new  surroundings  to  which  he  had  attained. 
Why  not? 

He  shifted  uneasily  in  his  chair. 

"I  s'pose  you're  quite  on  good  terms  with — gentry  and  so 
on?"  The  hated  word  slipped  out  and  he  cursed  under  his 
breath.  "Now  something  you  said  about  men  of  our  class — • 
it's  true  in  a  sense.  I'm  not  small-minded.  I'll  own  I've 
defects.  I've  had  no  time  for  polish,  as  you  know.  I've  had 
to  work.  Now  I'm  a  big  man  and  it's  not  easy.  How  would 


242  DOLF 

you  like  to  be  my  confidential  secretary — at  a  larger  salary 
than  Fordham  gave  you?" 

Dolf  drew  little  patterns  with  a  smart  umbrella. 

"How  much?"  she  drawled  very  carelessly,  smiling  straight 
at  him. 

"Five  hundred  a  year,"  he  smiled  back.  "Of  course  we'd 
throw  in  expenses.  But  it's  business,  mind.  There'll  be  no 
love-making  nor  nonsense.  You'd  have  to  work  for  it." 

With  an  effort  she  controlled  her  expression.  It  is  so  dizzy 
to  feel  your  power  if  you  are  a  girl. 

"Shall  we  say  six  months  on  trial?"  she  queried  tentatively. 
"Then  if  we  don't  suit  one  another  we'll  say  good-bye  with* 
out  any  broken  bones.  Thanks  awfully,  Tom.  I'll  love  to 
do  my  very  best.  When  do  I  start?" 

"To-morrow!"  came  the  swift  repy.  The  house  telephone 
burred  and  he  broke  off  with  the  receiver  to  his  ear. 

"Who?    Miss  Sheba  Garth?    Show  her  up  at  once." 

Curiously  Dolf  noted  the  change  that  came  over  him.  He 
seemed  to  swell  with  pride  and  importance.  As  she  rose  to 
go  a  tall,  dark,  imperious-looking  girl,  expensively  dressed 
entered  with  an  assured  air  almost  of  possession.  Mr.  Thomas 
Wainwright,  O.B.E.,  rose  deferentially. 

"Good-morning,  Miss  Sheba.  How  is  Sir  Julius?  I  was 
just  engaging  my  new  secretary,  but  I've  quite  finished." 
Then  in  an  altered  voice  of  dismissal  he  added  briefly: 

"That  will  be  all,  Miss  Farmer.  I  shall  see  you  at  9.30 
a.m.  to-morrow." 


CHAPTER  XX 

Dolf  wandered  thoughtfully  through  Hanover  Square  into 
Bond  Street.  The  cheery  sunshine  of  a  bright  autumn  day 
lent  fictitious  gaiety  to  a  well-dressed  shopping  crowd.  She 
bought  a  bunch  of  violets,  pinned  them  at  her  breast  and 
sauntered  idly  Piccadilly-ward. 

"What  I'm  going  to  do,"  she  mused,  "only  means  starting 
the  same  old  round  over  again.  It'll  not  be  Tom,  but  it'll 
be  others.  Thank  heaven  that  Garth  girl  will  keep  Tom  from 
any  nonsense.  She's  not  his  earl's  daughter, — but  perhaps 
she's  the  one  he'll  marry."  She  saw  her  reflection  in  a  win- 
dow and  her  faintly  pathetic,  still  immature  beauty  exasper- 
ated her. 

"There  are  only  two  decent  solutions  of  life  for  girls  like 
me,  a  figure  like  an  ironing  board  and  a  face  like  a  shovel, 
or  else  marriage.  And  girls  in  my  class  can't  marry  out  of 
it.  Even  Tom,  now,  is  above  me.  He's  in  with  the  Sir 
Juliuses."  Then  the  picture  of  herself  as  a  hopeless  aspirant 
for  the  name  of  Wainwright  tickled  her  fancy  and  she  laughed, 
for  a  moment  forgetting  the  real  emptiness  of  her  disillusioned 
heart. 

Back  in  her  Soho  dwelling-place  she  put  away  the  gown 
of  conquest  and  picked  up  the  arrears  of  housekeeping.  When 
Guy  came  in  at  half-past  seven  he  found  a  more  festive  meal 
than  usual  and  a  bottle  of  red  wine. 

"Is  it  your  birthday,  Dolf,  or  what?"  he  queried  with  his 
grave,  considering  smile.  "Why  this  ghastly  luxury?" 

She  stood  up  and  smiled  back. 

"I've  got  a  job.  This  is  my  celebration,  and  you're  the  dis- 
tinguished guest.  I'm  a  millionaire;  I've  been  promised  five 

243 


244  DOLF 

hundred  a  year  on  the  strength  of  a  big  bluff.  Say  you're 
pleased." 

He  leant  against  the  mantel-piece  and  not  a  ripple  of  emo- 
tion disturbed  his  face. 

"Tell  me,"  he  said  simply,  after  they  had  eaten. 

She  outlined  her  story,  throwing  in  a  brief  biography  of 
Tom  Wainwright.  He  nodded  in  silence. 

"Then  you'll  be  going  away?  You  can't  do  your  own  house- 
keeping and  earn  your  living  at  the  same  time." 

"Yes,  Guy;  I'll  be  going  away,"  she  said  with  difficult 
calm. 

"I  think  we're  all  square,"  he  suggested  still  with  his  grave 
smile.  "I  took  care  of  you  and  then  you  took  care  of  me 
after  I  was  ill." 

"Yes,  I  suppose  we  end  up  square."  And  to  herself  she 
added  dumbly,  miserably,  "He  loves  someone  he  can't  have, 
who  hurts  him  deliberately,  and  I  love  someone  I  can't  have, 
who  hurts  me  unconsciously,  so  it  must  be  about  even." 

"When  shall  you  leave?"  he  asked. 

"To-morrow.  I  shall  miss  you,  Guy,"  she  added  with  some- 
thing like  a  break  in  her  voice.  •  Fortunately  he  would  never 
know  how  much. 

"And  I  you,  Dolf  dear.  You  know  that.  And  I'm  awfully 
sorry  but  I  must  go  out  now.  We'll  have  another  talk  about 
it  when  I  come  back." 

But  she  had  left  before  he  returned.  She  could  not  have 
endured  a  second  parting. 

She  sent  a  note  thanking  him  over  and  over  again  for  his 
kindness,  spoke  gratefully  of  the  weeks  they  had  spent  to- 
gether, and  said  she  was  sure  they  would  meet  again.  She 
meant  as  far  as  it  lay  in  her  power,  never  to  see  him  any 
more. 

Dolf,  betaking  herself  to  two  quiet  rooms  in  the  Russell 
Square  region,  set  herself  to  study  Tom  Wainwright,  to  be  a 
messenger  preparing  his  social  way  before  him,  to  be  indis- 


DOLF  245 

pensable.  Early  she  realised  that  this  implied  a  study  of 
Sheba  Garth  but  that  young  woman  presented  few  difficulties 
to  a  pretty  girl  doomed  to  live  by  her  wits.  Sheba  fell  into 
a  very  conventional  category — the  spoilt  daughter  of  an  im- 
pecunious baronet  who  lived  largely  by  permitting  his  title  to 
adorn  the  prospectuses  of  companies  and  his  personality  to 
shed  lustre  on  boards  of  Directors.  It  became  clear  to  Dolf 
that  Tom  Wainwright  had  determined  to  marry  Sheba,  thus 
making  himself  impregnable  socially  as  he  was  financially. 
Sheba  merely  toyed  with  him  for  lack  of  something  better 
to  do;  in  the  meantime  his  car  was  irreproachable  and  his 
entertaining  expensive. 

Meanwhile  Tom  drove  Dolf  hard.  She  typed  innumerable 
letters,  she  made  abstracts  of  minutes,  she  watched  over  his 
appointments,  she  soothed  angry  visitors  and  delivered  them 
over  to  him  lambs  for  the  slaughter.  She  worked  early  and 
late  to  make  herself  an  integral  part  of  his  life. 

Moreover  she  was  a  safety  valve.  In  her  presence  he  could 
relax,  and  be  his  shameless  plebeian  self. 

"Do  I  have  braid  on  my  dress  trousers  or  not?"  he  would 
ask  helplessly.  "Where  did  you  tell  me  to  get  shirts  made — 
the  place  that  toff  you  knew  went  to.  I  don't  see  why  I 
shouldn't  wear  diamond  studs.  It  isn't  vulgar  for  me  because 
I  can  afford  it." 

"Yes,  but  it  isn't  done,"  she  explained  patiently.  "Sir 
Julius  and  Sheba  wouldn't  understand.  That  sort  of  person 
thinks  a  lot  of  these  small  things." 

"Miss  Garth  to  you,  please.  By  the  way,  Miss  Garth  is 
the  young  lady  I  hope  to  marry.  Be  particularly  careful 
never  to  do  anything  to  offend  her.  I  couldn't  overlook  that." 

Dolf  nodded  wisely. 

"Right  ho!  Well,  you'd  be  a  good  catch  for  her  in  some 
ways.  They're  as  poor  as  church  mice,  aren't  they?" 

"They  were  till  I  put  Sir  Julius  onto  Ethiopian  Oil  shares. 


246  DOLF 

He  made  about  fifty  thousand  out  of  them.  Why  are  you 
smiling?" 

"Oh,  at  nothing." 

One  afternoon  when  he  was  away,  Sheba  Garth  called  at  the 
Amalgamated  Stores  office.  She  went  up  to  Dolf's  room  and 
sat  contemptuously  on  a  table  swinging  her  legs. 

"You  knew  Mr.  Wainwright  as  a  child,  didn't  you?"  she  be- 
gan carelessly.  "You  both  lived  in  some  dreadful  village 
and  your  fathers  kept  little  shops  there.  Isn't  that  right?" 

Dolf  propped  her  chin  on  her  hands  and  stared  unblink- 
ingly  at  the  visitor. 

"I  wonder  what  you  want?"  she  said  slowly.  "Whatever  it 
is,  you  won't  get  it  from  me,  Miss  Garth.  You'd  better  ask 
Mr.  Wainwright  himself.  I'm  his  secretary  and  my  work 
doesn't  include  discussing  his  private  life." 

Sheba  Garth  laughed. 

"Aren't  you  rather  a  fool?  You  know  you  ought  to  marry 
him  yourself  because  you  can  supply  just  what  he  lacks. 
You  know  he  wants  to  marry  me,  and  yet  you  play  into  my 
hands.  As  a  matter  of  fact  I've  had  private  inquiries  made 
and  I  know  as  much  as  you  could  tell  me.  You  see,  father's 
quite  well  off  now,  and  I'm  not  obliged  to  marry  Mr.  Wain- 
wright. So  to  be  quite  frank,  I  shan't.  I  shall  refuse  him  at 
the  dance  he's  giving  next  week.  You'd  better  catch  him  on 
the  rebound.  Well,  I  don't  know  why  I  trouble  to  tell  you 
all  this.  Cheerio!" 

She  slid  from  the  table  and  strolled  away. 

That  same  day  Tom  invited  Dolf  to  the  dance  in  question. 
"You'll  be  able  to  keep  an  eye  on  things  and  handle  the 
people  for  me,"  he  explained.  "Don't  go  just  to  enjoy  your- 
self. Keep  Sir  Julius  in  a  good  temper,  if  possible.  He 
rather  fancies  you,  I  believe." 

Meantime,  what  Sheba  Garth  had  said  to  her  had  been 
drumming  in  her  ears.  "You  know  you  ought  to  marry  him 


DOLF  247 

yourself;  you  can  supply  just  what  he  lacks;  better  catch 
him  on  the  rebound." 

Six  months  had  elapsed  since  she  had  left  Guy  Senlake. 
And  though  she  still  cared,  it  was  a  scar  smarting  to  the  touch 
rather  than  an  open  wound.  Pride  had  come  to  her  aid, 
and  youth,  and  the  instinct  of  self-preservation. 

"Guy  said  we  were  grains  of  dust.  What  does  it  matter? 
His  sort  never  marries  my  sort  or  if  they  do  it  wrecks  them, 
and  us.  They  live  with  us  when  we're  young  and  pretty, 
make  our  own  men  impossible  by  contrast,  and  then  go  their 
way.  If  I  married  Tom  it  would  be  as  fair  for  him  as  for 
me.  And  if  I  don't  marry  someone  like  him  I'll  go  under." 

She  counted  the  cost,  wept  bitterly,  and  emerged  with  a 
heart  steeled  to  be  as  relentless  as  fate. 

The  dance  surprised  her  by  its  success. 

How  had  Tom  done  it?  There  were  some  very  unexpected 
guests,  and  Dolf  thought  of  him  with  new  respect. 

There  are  certain  women,  charming  and  fastidious  in  all 
other  respects,  who  will  pay  homage  to  any  star,  however 
newly  discovered,  so  long  as  it  be  in  the  ascendant.  For  this 
reason,  half-way  through  the  evening  Dolf  encountered  Sonia, 
picking  her  way  daintily  through  the  crush  supperward. 

She  was  glorious  as  ever,  yet  faintly  coarsened  in  some  in- 
definable way  just  perceptible  to  Dolf's  practised  eye.  She 
was  dressed  exquisitely  and  her  auburn  hair  flamed  a  moment 
across  Dolf's  vision  before  she  disappeared,  followed  by  several 
men.  She  had  not  seen  Dolf. 

But  something  bitter  and  hard  and  inexorable  had  entered 
into  Dolf's  soul.  It  was  the  one  touch  necessary  to  send  her 
in  the  now  inevitable  direction. 

About  a  quarter  of  an  hour  later  sbe  came  suddenly  upon 
Tom,  alone  in  a  corridor,  white  and  collapsed,  his  self  conceit 
evaporated,  his  mind  stunned. 

She  put  a  hand  on  his  arm  and  looked  at  him  pityingly. 


248  DOLF 

After  all,  it  seemed  hard  luck.  He  was  well-meaning,  he  had 
no  vice  in  him,  and  to  Sheba  he  had  been  child's  play. 

"Well,"  Dolf  said,  "what  is  it?" 

There  was  almost  tenderness  in  the  curve  of  her  mouth, 
and  so  in  sheer  misery  he  put  his  trust  in  her.  She  was  some- 
one he  could  depend  on,  and  after  all  she  knew  the  worst 
about  him.  He  need  never  worry  to  deceive  her. 

"Sheba  Garth  turned  me  down.  I  wanted  her,  Dolf. 
Daresay  it  serves  me  right  for  I  can't  say  I  loved  her  dearly. 
But  I'd  set  my  heart  on  her,  and  I  made  her  old  fool  of  a 
father.  Now  she  laughs  at  me  on  the  strength  of  the  money 
I  put  in  his  way.  It's  a  bitter  blow.  I  despise  a  man  that 
fails." 

"Never  mind,  Tom,"  she  said  gently.  "I  don't  think  you 
two  would  have  got  on.  She  hadn't  much  respect  for  you, 
or  anyone  else.  You  want  someone  more  sympathetic." 

She  was  very  near  and  very  beautiful.  He  watched  the 
slow  rise  and  fall  of  her  breast  almost  fascinated.  She  did 
not  appear  to  notice. 

"Like  you,"  he  said  harshly  at  last.  "You've  suffered  and 
you  understand.  You're  a  girl  from  my  own  village  and 
I  knew  you  as  a  little  thing  when  you  were  frightened  of  your 
father.  You've  grit  in  you  for  the  way  you  came  up  here 
and  fought  your  own  battles.  Dolf,  will  you  marry  me?" 

"So  this,"  she  thought,  "is  the  great  moment  of  my  life! 
and  probably  he  doesn't  care  if  I'm  moral  or  immoral!"  But 
aloud  she  replied: 

"Do  you  think  you're  sure  this  time,  Tom?  I  haven't 
led  any  sort  of  life  that  matters  to  any  man  who  wants  to 
marry  me.  But  do  you  want  to,  honestly?  Aren't  you  per- 
haps upset  and  not  yourself?" 

"No,"  he  said  doggedly,  "I  was  mad,  and  now  I'm  sane. 
Ill  never  have  to  pretend  with  you.  You  can  tell  me  things 
I'll  need  to  know,  you're  pretty  enough  for  a  king  on  his 
throne  and  I've  enough  money  to  do  you  justice.  And  we 


DOLF  249 

respect  one  another  and  that's  nine-tenths  of  marriage.  I 
love  you  quite  a  lot  and  I  don't  suppose  you  actually  hate 
me.  Are  you  willing,  Dolf?" 

She  bowed  her  head. 

"If  you're  quite,  quite  sure,  Tom.  And  if  you're  prepared 
to  settle  an  income  on  me  so  that  I  needn't  ask  you  for  every 
penny.  I  couldn't  do  that." 

For  a  moment  he  eyed  her  in  surprise.  Then  a  smile 
broke  over  his  face.  She  had  appealed  to  his  business  in- 
stinct. He  took  her  face  between  his  pudgy  hands  and  kissed 
her  lingeringly. 

A  faint  sound  broke  upon  them,  causing  them  to  spring 
apart. 

Sonia  was  passing,  alone. 

Dolf  glanced  swiftly,  commandingly  at  Tom,  and  he  under- 
stood. Taking  Dolf's  hand,  he  drew  her  in  Sonia's  pathway. 

"Miss  Farmer  has  just  honoured  me  by  saying  she'll  marry 
me,"  he  said,  between  pride  and  defiance. 

Sonia's  face  changed;  the  mocking  contempt  with  which 
she  had  eyed  Dolf  gave  way  to  amazement  in  which  was  a 
tinge  of  respect.  For  a  shop-girl  is  one  thing,  but  a  million- 
aire's wife  is  another. 

She  bowed  ironically. 

"Then  I  am  the  first  to  congratulate  you,  Mr.  Wainwright?" 
And  she  extended  her  hand,  which  he  shook  eagerly,  obse- 
quiously. 

About  a  week  later  Dolf  sat  white  and  rigid  in  the  new 
little  flat  Tom  had  insisted  on  finding  for  her.  She  was  living 
now  alone  with  the  reality  of  her  situation. 

Henceforward  nothing  mattered.  She  need  take  no  thought 
for  the  morrow,  since  he  would  provide  for  an  eternity  of  to- 
morrows. She  need  never  again  struggle  for  a  livelihood  nor 
flee  from  the  pursuit  of  men,  because  his  protection  com- 
passed her  about  like  a  wall  of  triple  brass.  The  old  excite- 
ment of  living  had  ceased  forever,  because  there  would  be  no 


DOLF 

longer  anything  to  get  excited  about.  There  would  never  be 
any  more  of  those  charming,  attractive,  impermanent  men  from 
a  world  other  than  hers. 

On  the  other  hand  she  had  won  security.  When  her  looks 
waned  she  would  have  just  as  much  claim  on  Tom  Wainwright 
as  in  the  days  of  her  beauty.  She  would  belong  to  the  great 
trades  union  of  the  Married  Women,  and  help  to  enforce 
conventions. 

Surely  this  was  luck? 

A  great  sob  rose  in  her  throat,  choking  her.  But  she  had 
done  too  much  crying  already  and  Tom  would  notice  when 
he  came  to  take  her  out.  Therefore  she  bathed  her  eyes  and 
got  into  an  evening  gown. 

She  had  finished  dressing  when  her  doorbell  rang. 

She  opened  the  door  to  Senlake. 

In  his  eyes  shone  the  ineffable  call  of  a  man  to  a  girl.  He 
dominated  her  so  that  she  drew  back  trembling.  But  he  paid 
no  heed. 

"You  know,  don't  you,"  he  said  quietly,  "that  this  can't  go 
on?" 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"You  know  what  I  mean,  Dolf.  I  want  to  marry  you.  You 
can't  marry  him.  Do  you  remember  the  things  you  said  about 
him?" 

Dolf  motioned  him  into  the  sitting  room,  sat  down  and 
explained  wearily: 

"You're  ever  so  much  more  attractive,  Guy,  and  you  know 
it.  And  I  know  it.  But  also  you  don't  know  what  you  want. 
You  love  me,  and  you  love  the  woman  who  was  your  wife. 
You  can't  make  up  your  mind  between  her  and  me.  I  could 
never  depend  on  you.  Your  head  would  always  be  half  turned 
away,  looking  back.  And  Tom,  for  all  his  faults  and  lack 
of  charm,  is  dependable.  He'll  never  turn  away  from  me.  I 
shall  have  something  of  my  own,  no  one  else's — a  man  to 
lean  on,  an  honest  unshakable  man.  I  don't  know  how  you 


DOLF  251 

found  out  we  were  engaged,  but  I  do  ask  you  to  leave  me  in 
peace.  You  see  I'm  so — so  fond  of  you,  I'll  never  have  any 
peace  so  long  as  I  can  see  you  and  talk  to  you." 

He  stood  perfectly  still  and  answered: 

"She  told  me — Sonia." 

"Oh?    Yes,  she  was  the  first  to  congratulate  us." 

Senlake,  a  lonely  detached  figure,  fought  his  battle  for  hap- 
piness with  the  forlorn  courage  of  one  without  hope. 

"Dolf,  that  day  when  Sonia  came  to  Gosport  Street — you 
remember? — she  saw  your  photograph,  and  guessed  every- 
thing. By  everything  I  mean  of  course  more  than  there  was, 
about  you  and  me.  And  she  told  me  of  your  visit  to  Pont 
Street." 

"Oh!"  said  Dolf  very  low,  and  hid  her  face  in  her  hands. 

"That  was  how  I  knew  I  ceased  to  love  her.  I  saw  her  as 
she  really  is.  I  saw  myself  as  I'd  really  been.  I  used  to 
think  I'd  seen  it  always,  but  I  hadn't.  And  I  saw  something 
else." 

He  came  forward  and  took  her  hand.  She  gazed  up  at  him, 
ghastly  pale. 

"I  knew  then  it  was  you  I  loved,  Dolf.  I  didn't  tell  you, 
because  I'd  wanted  you  as  other  men  have,  just  to  forget,  to 
soothe  the  ache  of  my  heart,  to  be  at  rest;  just  for  my  sake, 
not  for  yours.  And  then,  when  I  knew  I  loved  you,  you  be- 
came the  littlest  thing,  to  be  adored  and  taken  care  of.  So 
I  wanted  to  wait  a  little  and  root  out  the  memory  of  my  sheer 
blind  passion.  It  seemed  the  only  decent  thing." 

"But  were  you  so  sure  I  loved  you  back,  Guy?" 

He  laughed  softly,  triumphantly. 

"Do  you  remember  when  I  was  ill,  and  you  knelt  down  be- 
side me  because  I  couldn't  go  to  you,  and  put  your  head 
against  mine?  We  can  lie  to  one  another  in  words,  Dolf 
darling,  but  the  touch  of  someone  whom  you  really  love,  who 
loves  you  back,  can't  lie.  That's  how  I  know.  And  that's 
how  I'll  tell  you,  if  you'll  let  me." 


252  DOLF 

He  gathered  her  to  him,  and  bent  his  head  so  that  her 
cheek  rested  against  his.  She  knew  it  was  heaven  to  be  held 
so,  very  gently  and  tenderly,  and  the  meaning  of  love  drifted 
into  her  soul;  gentleness,  protection,  a  safe  refuge,  encom- 
passing arms.  Love  meant  more  than  sanctified  passion;  it 
jmplied  someone  who  would  rather  give  up  to  you  than  attain 
something  for  himself. 

How  could  you  ever  be  weary  or  disappointed  if  someone 
loved  you  better  than  himself? 

Perfect  peace  stole  over  her  and  she  lifted  her  arms  and 
put  them  around  his  neck  because  all  her  body  seemed  very 
tired,  but  her  heart  sang  for  joy. 

"I  love  you,"  she  said.  "You  know  I  could  never  love  any- 
one else.  I  was  silly  to  ask  if  you  knew,  but  I'm  so  happy  I 
don't  mind.  You  won't  let  Tom  be  angry  because  I'm  going  to 
you,  will  you,  Guy?  Darling,  I  love  saying  your  name  over 
and  over  again.  And  we'll  be  such  wonderful  lovers,  and 
I'll  do  everything  for  you,  and  no  other  woman  shall  ever 
come  near  you.  I  think  I'd  kill  her  if  she  did." 

He  lifted  her  face  and  looked  straight  into  her  eyes. 

"I've  nothing  to  offer  you  except  me,"  he  murmured,  "but 
you'll  make  me  do  such  great  things  it  hardly  matters.  You 
shall  have  gold  bracelets  for  your  beautiful  arms,  slave  brace- 
lets for  love,  and  pearls  for  your  adorable  throat.  But  first 
I'll  kiss  you,  because  you're  mine." 

She  lifted  her  most  wonderful  mouth.  He  kissed  her 
gently,  cruelly,  ineffably,  so  that  she  would  willingly  have 
died  rather  than  it  should  end,  and  she  knew  that  they  had 
always  been  lovers  from  the  very  beginning  of  the  world. 

THE   END 


A     000120095 


